


The Ghost Map

by MadameGiry25



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Cholera, False motives, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Illnesses, Infection, John Snow, Maps, Mystery, Prison, Romance, Scotland Yard, Serial Killers, Tragedy, epidemic, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameGiry25/pseuds/MadameGiry25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years, Sherlock Holmes has solved more crimes than there are stars in the sky.  But now it seems that he pales to the new microbial killer that threatens to destroy London forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Student

Dr. John Watson pushed his glasses farther up his nose and looked out at the university students and professors that gathered before him. The students all sat in neat rows, pencils primed over paper in order to take precise notes, staring expectantly into space. Professors lined the room in straight backed chairs; indeed, they all had the appearance of royalty overseeing their kingdom.

Watson cleared his throat softly, dropping his gaze to look over his papers. He had always hated academic lectures as a young student; how in the world is a person supposed to scribble notes as fast as the teacher can talk?

And now he had been asked to give a lecture to these young students. How far he'd come in so few years…

He was sitting next to a number of medical professionals, all lined up like meat on a butcher's rack. Their chairs rested on a low dais; a speaker's podium was the only barrier between the grown men and the students. A clock chimed from elsewhere in the building and one of the professors stood and made his way to the platform.

Watson only listened distantly to the speech until a few words reached his ear and he stiffened: "Dr. John Watson, renowned medical man and biographer of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the private detective." Applause exploded as he rose to his feet and found himself walking to the podium.

"Thank you, professor," he cordially intoned, turning to face the students. "Good afternoon." There was a dull murmur of greeting as the scholars shifted impatiently in their seats. "On Monday the 28th of August, 1854, a Mrs. Sarah Lewis initiated one of the deadliest outbreaks of cholera in recent memory."

Watson's voice echoed throughout the gigantic hall, seeming to bounce off the walls and seep through the windowpanes to resonate in the garden outside.

"Within a single day, the death toll rose to more than seventy people; with people dying left and right, the disease seemed to be unstoppable. Until one man, determined to root out the source, set out on a mission that would change medical history forever. His name was Dr. John Snow."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Watson ran his fingers through his straggly, blond hair as he removed his hat and coat, thankful that the wretched lecture was over. He was standing in the entryway of his previous residence in Baker Street.

The only light in the small corridor came from the room on his immediate right. The flickering light of the fire danced on the wood paneling, reflecting in the water that he had inadvertently dripped on the rug.

A soft rain had begun to fall during his walk from the university and it had only gotten worse by the time he arrived at his destination.

This was the first time that he had returned to his old flat since his marriage. And until this moment, however, he hadn't realized how much he missed the place. Shaking the water from his coat, he hung it carefully on the hook and stretched slightly, looking over the familiar aspects of the old flat.

The burn marks on the walls that had been caused by wayward methodical experiments. Scribbled notes of a more or less scientific nature that lined the floor and were otherwise pinned up on the walls. He smiled to himself. Baker Street had not changed.

"Good evening, Watson," came the familiar voice from the other room. "I must say that I wasn't expecting you this evening. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Holmes," He greeted, making his way into the sitting room. Holmes was sitting comfortably in his favorite arm chair, wrapped in his usual dressing gown and lighting his beloved pipe. "Nothing in particular, I suppose. I just wanted a chat before I went home to Mary."

Holmes motioned for Watson to take a seat in the chair opposite him. "I trust that your lecture went well, my dear Watson." He remarked, sticking his pipe between his teeth and offering his customary wry smile.

"Yes, very well." said Watson, settling himself in what used to be his preferred armchair and glancing around the familiar room. The absence of his bookshelves filled with medical encyclopedias and his familiar desk in the corner made the room feel strangely empty. He wondered briefly if Holmes had realized this fact as well. "You read about it in the paper, then?"

"Certainly I did, Watson. But, as you mention it, you would not be wearing your good shoes for nil. And I would wager that were I to venture out into the hall I would find your good hat and coat."

"You would be correct." Watson chuckled to himself.

"What, pray tell, was the subject of your lecture?"

"Why, did you not observe it in the paper?"

"Of course I did." He said sardonically. "But 'London and its Medical History' is a rather broad topic and I would wager a guess that your particular talk was much more developed and simple."

"The history of cholera in London, actually," said Watson, pulling notes from his trouser pocket and handing them over to his friend for examination. "But the medical history of London was the subject for a large group of medical men who were speaking today. The students seemed to enjoy it if nothing else."

"As well they should," chuckled Holmes, thumbing through the stack with an expression of mild interest. He held up one piece of paper to the light of the gas lamp. Squinting slightly, I realized that it was a diary page that I had obtained specifically for this lecture. For a moment, he looked intrigued. Then he replaced the paper in the stack and glanced up at his friend. "I must say, Watson, that this looks absolutely fascinating. Would you permit me to keep these notes for a few days?"

"Why, certainly, Holmes."

"Could I possibly persuade you to stay for supper tonight, Watson? It gets rather lonely eating on my own."

"Mary is expecting me home, I'm afraid. Perhaps you would come down for tea tomorrow? I know that she would love to see you."

"Please tell Mrs. Watson that I will arrive in a timely manner tomorrow evening and look forward to her company." He said, eyes sparkling slightly with contained amusement.

"I certainly will, Holmes."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain continued steadily throughout the afternoon, sending sheets of wet and cold onto the unprotected homeless of London. Thunder rumbled worryingly in the distance, telling the young man striding across the cobblestones that the weather was likely to only get worse.

He was a short man; the fact that he was little more than skin and bones made his stature all the more noticeable. His face appeared pale in what little light punctuated the street and his eyes had the half-starved, hollow look that told you he hadn't eaten a decent meal in weeks. And yet, a brilliant smile was on his face and he whistled a merry tune from between his teeth. His name was Oliver Kensington.

Oliver Kensington hadn't always been a beggar; in fact, he really wasn't a beggar to begin with. He was the son of a wealthy lord who resided a number of miles outside of London. Oliver had lived with his family until a few months ago when he'd had a disagreement with his father.

Although he'd never admit it, the disagreement had been over a woman. Elizabeth had been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he loved her with every fiber of his being. However, love had evidently blinded him: she had only 'loved' him because of his wealth. Of course, he didn't discover this until after his father, who had seen through Elizabeth's lies, had stopped his allowance.

Admittedly, he'd asked for the money to stop; it had seemed like a good idea at the time. How was he supposed to have known that the girl wasn't really serious and that she would drop him as soon as she found out he was no longer a millionaire?

He was fully aware that the majority of London's population would feel sorry for him, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

This was because, despite it all, Oliver found his new life to be quite satisfactory. The life of a beggar wasn't as bad as some people thought. He could get at least one meal a day, two or three if he was lucky, almost for free, then he could spend the rest of his time doing whatever his heart desired. It was worth sleeping in alleys and under old crates, at least to him. And wasn't that all that mattered?

"Of all the trades that's goin', I say beggin' is the best. For when a man is tired he can sit down and rest, he can beg for his dinner he has nothin' else to do -" Oliver broke off his song when he noticed a young woman emptying a bucket into the sewer. "Good mornin', mistress!" he called out with a huge grin on his baby cheeks. "Fine day, ain't it? Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, whirling around to find the source. "Who are you?" Her face seemed to have a permanent sneer painted on the slim features and her jet black hair curled rebelliously around her heart shaped face.

"Oh…well…they call me Johnny." Oliver chuckled quietly to himself. He had found that it was best not to use his real name; people tended to ask ridiculous questions when they found out that he had a title and he wasn't particularly in the mood to answer.

The woman's green eyes seemed to penetrate his skin as she frowned at him, shaking her mane of hair out of her eyes. "I've not seen you around 'ere before."

"Just passing through," he shrugged, now eyeing the bucket. "What's that you've got there?"

She hastily hid the bucket behind her back. "Nothing. Mind your own business, you… vagabond." Then she brandished the bucket in front of him, displaying the fact that the contents were absent from the interior.

"Vagabond?" he feigned incredulity. "Me, good mistress? Me? I beg to differ -"

"I don't care what you say." She glared and shook her head disapprovingly.

"All right, miss, all right. But what about my water?" There was something about this woman that he distinctly didn't like. Perhaps it was the way that she scorned him. But that wasn't likely. Many people scorned him because he was a beggar. This woman was…different, somehow.

Frowning irritably, she held up her right hand and pointed to a pump that stood a few feet away. "I said for you to get! There's a pump down there if you're that desperate"

All right, miss. I'm going." He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and backed away from her. With one last hateful glance, she hurried up the steps into her house and slammed the door.

"Some people," he muttered, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets and making his way down the road. "You'd think she'd never seen a homeless man before."

Shaking his head in annoyance, he strode over to the pump in question. It was an old, rusty thing with a great deal of corrosion marring the spout. But what was surprising about the device was that the handle was shiny and appeared brand spanking new.

Yet, this simple fact did little to arouse the any curiosity as he began to work the pump, maneuvering his lips to take in as much water as possible. When he had drunk his fill, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and straightened up, stretching contentedly.

"Best water this side of the Thames, if I do say so myself." He said with conviction, smacking his lips pleasurably.

With water that good, he could allow himself to forget the rudeness of the young woman. He could also get used to this. Maybe even stay around here a wee bit longer than he had originally intended. Why not?


	2. Chapter 2

Mary Watson rushed to greet her waterlogged husband as he was swept into the entryway by an overpowering wind. She was a young, pretty thing with sparkling eyes that showed her uncontainable joy at John's return. John, still dripping, hung up his hat and coat before sweeping her into an affectionate embrace and kissing her.

"How are you, dearest?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"How was the lecture?" Mary smiled fondly at her husband. She could hear John stifle a cough as a chill went down his spine. "Oh, I'm sorry, my darling." Mary chided herself, holding him at arm's length in order to examine his sopping clothing. "You're soaked to the skin. Run upstairs and draw yourself a bath. I'll have something hot waiting for you when you're finished."

"Thank you, Mary." With one last kiss on her forehead, he began to briskly mount the stairs, removing his jacket as he did so. "Oh, Mary." She turned back to face him. "Holmes is planning on coming for tea tomorrow. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, John. You know that."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes leisurely turned the page of his newspaper over and glanced up at the clock. It was only about half ten in the morning but he was bored. It had been ages since he'd had a stimulating crime and that tended to make him….anxious. He sighed. What was wrong with the population of London criminals? The mere fact that they were being very uncooperative was displeasing to him. Mrs. Hudson called him morbid for thinking so.

"Mr. Holmes, you've got to eat something." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in annoyance as she picked his plate of ice cold eggs and set it on the tray. "You haven't eaten anything in days. You'll come down with something."

"Mrs. Hudson, I am perfectly aware of my own eating habits, thank you very much." Holmes tossed the paper to the side, ignoring the fact that it hit the floor with a satisfying crumple. "I told you that I will eat when I need to and not before."

"Just because you don't have a case does not mean that you do not eat." She scolded. "How I rue the day that the good doctor left us! He would have been able to make you eat something."

"Indeed." Holmes leaned back in the chair and rotated his aching neck. "But the fact remains that he is not here. And I do not require any food at the moment."

Mrs. Hudson looked as though she was preparing to argue the fact but was interrupted by the doorbell and a few rapid bangs on the front door of the flat. After casting him one last look of indignation, she shook her head and left the room to answer the door.

Holmes chose to ignore her as she left. Odds were good that it wouldn't be anyone of interest; why would it be? Nothing interesting every seemed to happen anymore. It wasn't bloody fair.

"Just a moment, sir. I'll ask Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson was back at the door now, one hand on her hip as she gave him a look that plainly said: "Pull yourself together."

"Who is it, Mrs. Hudson? I'm not expecting anyone."

"I think that you'll want to speak to the gentleman, Mr. Holmes."

"Then show him in." Holmes shrugged and reached for his pipe. Why not? He could do with a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson stepped aside to reveal a young beggar. A starved look on his baby-like face suggested that he lived on the street for quite some time but something in his attire seemed to contradict that fact.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." The clipped, educated accent only served to confirm what Holmes had been certain of a few moments ago. "Could I perhaps beg a few moments of your time?"

"I daresay that you can, my good fellow." Holmes straightened, just a bit, and motioned for his guest to be seated. "Now. Before you begin, might I ask why a son of a lord is masquerading as a beggar in this part of London? I feel like it may be a fascinating tale."

"Not quite fascinating, Mr. Holmes." The young man shook his head wearily and sat down on the indicated chair. "My name is Oliver Kensington. Perhaps you've heard of my father?"

"I do seem to recall reading something about it in the paper." Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Split with your father because of a row, wasn't it?"

"Yes. How did you know that my father was a lord?"

"You are simply not properly equipped to pass as a beggar. The way you walk would have given you away if your hands had not."

"Do you mean that they do not appear to be a working man's hands?"

"Partially. But you can't deny the fact that your name appears to be written on the inside of your sleeve and the signet ring that you wear is certainly obvious."

"That's incredible. No one has ever noticed my ring before."

"Clearly." Holmes glanced up at the clock on the mantel, fearing that this case would be as dull as not having one at all. "But I generally like to think that I am more observant than the average Londoner. However. I'm sure that you did not call on me to observe my deductive abilities."

"Alas, no." Oliver shrugged his shabby coat from his shoulders and, after glancing questioningly towards Holmes, he began to warm his hands by the fire. He grimaced slightly, holding one hand to his midsection and shaking his head deliberately.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit of indigestion." He straightened his back and offered Holmes a semi-convincing smile. "I would like to report the facts of a murder."

"A murder? Do tell, my good sir. I am most intrigued."

"The problem is that no one else believes it to be murder."

"And you know better?"

"I'd like to think so, Mr. Holmes. You see, I've been living on the streets for almost a year now and I like to think that I know London pretty well. I've seen evidence of something not quite right happening right in our midst." Oliver's eyes appeared to darken as he spoke. "Perhaps you've heard of the recent strains of cholera that have been appearing in the area?"

"I had heard of them. But I saw nothing to believe that foul play was involved."

"Well, I don't have any definite proof." Oliver admitted. "But something tells me that this outbreak of disease is not an accident."

"Oh?" Holmes didn't dare allow himself to hope quite yet.

"We haven't had a widespread bout of cholera since the Old Ford reservoir was contaminated back in 1866."

' _There's a man what knows his history.'_ Holmes thought dryly.

"The filtration of the water was supposed to have put an end to that. So why is the disease becoming active again?"

"Perhaps there is a fault in one of the filtration plants."

"It just doesn't add up, Mr. Holmes. I believe that someone is deliberately spreading the disease."

Holmes sat back in his chair considering. It was certainly a feasible idea, though it would be difficult to prove to the authorities without any sort of evidence. "A serial killer with disease as a weapon…" he breathed, allowing satisfaction to settle over his features.

"I know it seems a bit farfetched."

"Not in the least, Kensington. Cholera would be an effective tool in the hands of a serial killer. He could cause widespread terror in the space of a few days by killing dozens of people. _If_ he knew how to administer the disease."

"So the only thing missing is a motive."

"If what you have told me is true, I suspect that a motive will turn up in time. It usually does."

"I thought that you would think me insane, Mr. Holmes."

' _Ordinarily, I probably would.'_ Out loud, he only chuckled. "I believe that behind your madness, there is a method, if you pardon the cliché. I feel that this case will be very promising."

A few minutes later, Oliver Kensington had left the flat. Mrs. Hudson had followed shortly afterwards; it was her day to do the shopping. Holmes suspected that she had a diabolical plan to get him to eat something and wouldn't be surprised if she turned up with Watson in tow later on.

But right now, he had some thinking to do. The proposition of a secret serial killer thrilled him beyond measure. At last, the criminal population of London was being obliging with a case that he could really get his teeth into!


	3. Chapter 3

The constable saw him first. He had been making his usual rounds around the Broad Street area when the man appeared.

It was a pitiful sight: the young man staggered helplessly through the street, clutching desperately at his midsection and moaning. Every so often, he gave a horrible cry and lurched down towards the sidewalk only to pick himself up a moment later and continue on his way. Admittedly, the constable felt sorry for the man. He had no idea what was ailing the poor chap but he obviously looked like he was in considerable pain. _Maybe it was something he ate…or, rather, didn't eat._ Beggars these days didn't really have a chance to live properly, poor things.

"'ere, old thing." He called out, striding smartly forward to catch the man before he fell once more. He was taken aback to discover that the man barely seemed to weigh anything. What appeared to be a man was so thin that his limbs seemed to protrude like a stick figure's and his face was contorted with pain; yet his eyes appeared strangely alert. "You a'right?"

"What's happening?" the man groaned, lurching forward so that he now lay over the constable's arm. "What's -" He retched, splattering the stones with sick. The man moaned softly, falling back into the appalled constable's arms. His head lolled limply to the side and he began to cough violently.

"'Ere now, chap. Take it easy. You'll be all right." The weak constable struggled to support the writhing man, shifting his weight to the other arm. Frantically, he tried to think of what to do. This wasn't exactly his area of expertise. Any number of things could be wrong with this man. Who knows what kind of diseases these wretches pick up in the streets? Then a small building caught his eye and he breathed a sigh of relief. "See, I toldja. You'll be all right. What's yer name, son?"

The man paused for a moment, trying to speak through his ragged throat. "Oliver," he gasped out. "Oliver…Kensington,"

* * *

Watson wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve, glancing up at the clock. It was only about 3 o'clock in the afternoon; he still had hours to go before he could return home. It had been an unusually busy day with patients arriving left and right, insisting that they were in the grips of some horrendous ailment or other. However, in nine out of ten cases his diagnosis was considerably less thrilling.

Glancing out into his waiting room, he discovered that it was blessedly empty. Perhaps he would have time for a cup of tea before the next long-suffering patient. Pouring himself a mug of hot water, he settled down into a chair to enjoy his much-needed break. The scalding liquid did much to soothe his aching head as he leaned his head back, inhaling the steam that floated off the surface in light colored swirls. He reached for the book on the table and thumbed through it until he found the page that he had left off.

"Dr. Watson!" the cry came from the waiting room and he was on his feet in an instead, stowing the steaming mug on a convenient tabletop and tossing the book away. Pushing through the door, he discovered a man in a constable's uniform barely supporting a half-starved beggar. "Doctor, please help."

The constable's eyes were huge with terror and confusion; the beggar's eyes held a certain understanding that no one in the room seemed to share. Watson was at their side in an instant, carefully supporting the ill man's head and observing his condition in the swift manner that comes naturally to only the most experienced physicians.

A few moments later, they had brought the sufferer into his consulting room and laid him on a couch. In that short period of time, the man had fell unconscious, which certainly did not bode well. Watson felt the pulse of the now unconscious man and frowned, not looking at the constable who looked as though he was about to faint as well.

"Is he…dead?" faltered the constable, rolling up his wrinkled sleeves and gazing down nervously at the man.

"No, I don't think so." replied Watson, having returned to his bookshelf and was now thumbing through a volume. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was making my rounds now, wasn't I?" said the constable, not taking his eyes off of the patient. "And this man, here, 'e appears out of nowhere. 'E's moaning and holding his gut and what was I to think? I went over to him and he was groaning somethin' awful. Then 'e gets sick all over the place and I's decided to bring 'im here. Wha' else coulds I do?"

"You say that he was experiencing stomach pains?" said Watson, now turning the pages with renewed fervor. His eyebrows drew together as a possible diagnosis ran through his mind. No. It couldn't be what he thought it was.

"I think so. Why else would 'e be holding 'is gut?"

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" Watson asked, now holding the book to his chest and looking directly at the constable.

The constable was silent for a long moment, pondering. "There was…a lot of…water everywhere." He said slowly and methodically.

Watson paled, averting his gaze and staring at a conveniently blank spot on the wall. Finally, he came unto himself and looked straight at the officer and offered an insincere smile. "Thank you, constable. I shall take care of him."

The constable seemed relieved to be dismissed and scrambled to his feet, taking another look at Oliver. His expression suggested that, despite his obvious horror, he still had it in him to be concerned for the poor chap. "Will he be all right, doctor?" he asked, his voice faltering and unsure.

It was the last question that Watson wanted to answer at this moment; there was simply no telling at this point. He could only shrug and clench his teeth, praying that the constable wouldn't press him further. "Do you know who he is? Was there any identification on him? Any relatives that we should notify?"

The constable seemed unable to take his eyes off of the man. "'e said that 'is name was Oliver Kensington. That's all I know."

"Thank you, constable."

Once the constable had gone, he turned back to the unconscious man on the couch and swallowed hard. Then he moved to his medical case and selected a syringe. Carefully, he created a solution of water and salt, sucking it into the syringe. Slowly, he began the process of injecting this solution into his patient. It was a stretch; the man was obviously beyond help. But there was no way that he would let the man die without a fight.

The unconscious man seemed to cry out in his sleep. Or was it simply the pounding, screaming noises that were running through his rattled mind? Watson wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and set his jaw against the mental pain.

* * *

John Watson closed the front door of his home with a bang, throwing his hat across the room and gritting his teeth. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mary hurried out of the kitchen with a pensive expression.

"John. What happened, John?" asked Mary, helping her husband out of his coat and hanging it on the rack. One didn't have to know her husband well to see that something much worse than a bad day at the office had happened.

It was a moment before John answered. His face had very little color and his eyes seemed slightly dull. "I had a death today at my practice." He said quietly, almost reluctantly. "A young beggar. Cholera."

"Cholera?" repeated Mary softly, falling into his waiting arms and biting her lip. "Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid that there is no doubt, Mary," said John wearily. "A constable brought him to me this afternoon after he'd discovered the man in the streets. But it was too late. The man slipped into a coma shortly after the constable left and it was only a matter of an hour before he was dead."

"Oh, John," Mary whispered, pressing herself against her husband's body. "I'm sorry."

John looked over her head at the closed door that led to the sitting room. "I should have been able to do something. I tried. All I could do was administer treatment that I knew wasn't going to help anyway. I'm to blame for the poor man's death."

"John, don't talk like that. It wasn't your fault, my darling," said Mary, soothingly. "You said yourself that by the time he was brought to you, it was too late."

"I know," John swallowed hard. "The strange thing is that this is not the first report of cholera I've received in this area. I've been speaking to other doctor's in the area. Apparently there have been an increased number of cholera induced deaths lately."

"How strange…" mused Mary, closing her eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Holmes sent a message by Wiggins today. He wants you to come to Baker Street and see him as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Mary." John retrieved his hat from the rack. "I'll go see him now, if you don't mind."

"Of course not, dearest." Mary offered him a last hug before helping him into his hat and coat once more. "Will you be staying with him for supper?"

"I daresay," said John, stealing a glance at his pocket watch. "You never know with Holmes."

"I'll be waiting, darling." said Mary quietly, watching him go.

Once outside, Watson decided against hailing a hansom. After the afternoon he'd had, it seemed like it would be more beneficial for him to walk.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes sensed the pain of his old friend before Watson entered the sitting room. Frustration seemed to drip from the ceiling with his entrance. "Watson, what's happened?"

Watson didn't answer for a moment. He collapsed into an armchair and buried his face in his hands. "I had a death at my practice today."

Holmes was silent, observing his friend. He chose not to speak because he knew that, given time, Watson would admit the true cause of his frustration.

"Cholera," Watson straightened up and looked Holmes directly in the eye. "By the time he arrived at my doorstep, it was too late."

"Cholera," repeated Holmes, looking distinctly troubled. "Who was the victim?"

"His papers identify him as Oliver Kensington, a member of the aristocracy. Apparently he was masquerading as some sort of tramp because of a row with his father. Do you know of him?"

Holmes froze, not quite daring to believe what he heard. "Did you say Oliver Kensington, Watson?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

His mind began to race at the name. Theories that had seemed ludicrous a few short hours ago suddenly seemed plausible. After the boy had left, Holmes had dismissed the thought as too incredible for it to be real. And now…Was it possible that Kensington was telling the truth? It had seemed out of the question at the time…he had only agreed to take the case out of sheer boredom…

"Are you all right, Holmes?" asked Watson, his brow creased with some confusion.

The voice brought him out of his private thoughts and he attempted to shake himself mentally. "Yes," he said absently, staring out of the window deep in thought.

"Holmes?" He could hear Watson rising from his chair to stand behind him and could feel the conflicting emotions of his old friend prodding at him. He sighed.

"Did you get any information out of him before he died?"

"Information? Whatever do you mean, Holmes?"

Holmes turned to face him, his features grave and thoughtful. "Oliver Kensington came to Baker Street yesterday."

Watson seemed to suck in his breath as the importance of this fact sunk in. "I see,"

"Kensington asked me to investigate a string of cholera related deaths. He believed that they were being deliberately spread."

"Who would want to spread cholera around London?"

Holmes took a deep breath before answering, refusing to look Watson in the eye. "Perhaps a serial killer,"

Watson was silent for a moment, apparently considering the overly dramatic notion. "Cholera could be a lethal killer if it is in the wrong hands," he allowed evenly.

Holmes nodded distantly, his eyes traveling down to the sheet of paper that he had forgotten was clasped in his right hand. Flattening it on a table, he looked down at it and began to read over it absently before looking up at Watson once more. "How many cases of cholera do you normally treat on a regular basis?"

"Very few in general," said Watson. "Cholera is a waterborne disease that can kill you in the space of a few hours."

"Waterborne," mused Holmes. "Is there any way that it could be spread accidentally?"

"Not in this day and age. After the epidemic in 1847, London made a sincere effort to clean up the sewage problem and installed filters. They only failed once and that was because the construction had not yet been completed."

"Is there any other way to contract the disease? By physical contact, for example?"

"It's feasible," allowed Watson. "If one was to have enough of the bacteria on one's fingers, then they could conceivably ingest it and fall ill. But it's rather unlikely."

"So they must ingest the bacteria,"

"Correct. Ever since the construction of the filtration system, we've not had problem with more than the occasional flare up. But none of them have been serious. And there's really no reason to assume that this one will be."

"Which is exactly why it will become a serious case," Holmes looked Watson in the eye for the first time since he had arrived. "Something tells me that Kensington's death was not an isolated incident."

"Do you mean that someone deliberately killed him to keep him quiet about his theories?"

"It's possible," Holmes allowed. "But we don't have any proof at the moment."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there's nothing to suggest that Kensington's death was foul play. I wouldn't have believed it myself if he had not come to visit me."

Watson bit his lip and looked up at the clock. It had taken him more time than he had been anticipating reaching the flat and having the conversation with Holmes. It was almost dark. But he felt that Mary wouldn't object to him staying longer. "How about a bit of supper, Holmes? We can continue theorizing about this case as we eat."

"If you'll forgive me, I'll not mix this business with my food as of yet," said Holmes, not even bothering to fake an apologetic expression. Watson just nodded.

* * *

Watson closed the door of his flat with a feeling of relief, sinking against the floral wallpaper and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He slipped his gloves from his hands, glancing up at the clock. It was late but he expected that Mary would be waiting for him as she always did.

His suspicions were confirmed as she suddenly appeared at his side, apparently having just come in from the drawing room. Her eyes were melancholy and she seemed choked as she fell into his arms. "John,"

"What is it, Mary?" He held her close as she lay against him, just breathing.

"Something terrible has happened. So many people are dying." He could see a tear sliding down her perfect cheek and he held her even tighter.

"What's happened?"

"I've spoken to other doctors. Cholera patients are popping up everywhere. Sporadically. And they're dying faster than we can care for them."

"Has anyone else come to our practice?" He asked, not really wanting to hear an answer.

"Two more. But they were dead within minutes of arriving. The families took the bodies." Her voice was throttled by another wave of tears and she was unable to continue. "It's so horrible."

Watson pulled Mary in close, breathing in her scent as she cried. But he wasn't thinking about her or even aware of her presence. His mind began to race as he slowly comprehended the information from both Holmes and Mary. And he didn't like what he was discovering.

* * *

About a week later, Watson stood at the window of his practice, staring out into the gloomy street. The bell began to ring as the carts moved up and down the road in front of the houses. "Bring out your dead!" called the driver, leading the mournful-looking horses.

At least every other household brought a body into the open air. Some were wrapped tenderly in white linen. Others were dressed in their Sunday best. Still others were dressed in the clothes they had died in. It was like the Black Death of old.

The grey clouds that had settled over London during the past few days had done little to raise the morale of the terrified citizens. And who could blame them? The cholera had spread like wildfire; during the past two days alone, the disease had chalked up more than 200 victims.

The disease was no longer contained to the area that it had originated either; it seemed to have oozed through the cracks of the streets, popping up seemingly at random. All of London's best medical professionals were at a loss. All of the data they had accumulated over years of epidemics argued that this chain of events was impossible. It was simply impossible for the disease randomly spread across the city by itself.

Which suggested that the Oliver Kensington had been correct: the disease was being deliberately transmitted over the population. But why? Even though it appeared to be random, there had to be some kind of pattern, no matter how slight. Unless, of course, the instigator was nothing more than a homicidal lunatic, which was very possible. The most dangerous killers were the ones who killed simply because they could.

But the pattern didn't suggest that this was the work of a madman. After all, the disease had to be procured and nurtured before it was unleashed. No mere madman would be capable of something like that. Which meant…this went much deeper than anyone had previously guessed. But, the theory of a homicidal madman was all that the police had come up with at this point. They could only hope that Holmes had uncovered something.

Holmes…Holmes had certainly seemed to be more than a little worse for wear lately. Watson could only imagine the frustration that the detective was experiencing. The fact that they knew the plague was deliberate didn't immediately point to who was responsible. Of course –

Watson's musings were cut short by a frantic banging on the front door. Swallowing hard, he hurried to answer the clattering. Lately, every time he'd heard anyone at the door, he'd taken that to mean that another poor soul was lying near death with the dreaded disease. The things that an epidemic could do to one's mind… _'Oh God, please don't let it be too late.'_

With one fluid motion, he wrenched the door open, ready for anything. Rolling up his sleeves, he prepared to assist before he…simply….froze at the sight of the visitor. John Watson was an army medico through and through. He had seen peace and he had seen hell on Earth. He had treated the most grievous of injuries imaginable; he had experienced triumph and utter failure.

But nothing, absolutely nothing in the world could have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the front door of his practice and peered out into the streets. The first thing he saw was the face of the man kneeling on his front steps. He froze; just staring in horror. _Oh, no. Lord, please no._ Because his worst nightmare had just come true in the form of a thin, young man on his knees in agony on his step. And all he could do was thinly whisper one word, one name: "Wiggins,"

He came unto himself in a heartbeat, shouting frantically for Mary. She was at his side in a second, sucking in her breath sharply at the sight of the familiar boy. "John?" her voice had raised an octave as she knelt down next to Wiggins, wiping his face with her apron and gently shushing his moans. "What do you need me to do?"

"Get Holmes." Watson's voice was steady now and he gently lifted Wiggins, carrying him inside. "For God's sake, Mary, get Holmes as fast as you can."

Mary got to her feet, casting one horrified look at the boy. "John," she asked hesitantly, donning her headscarf. "John, do you think that you can save him?"

John didn't turn but he did pause with his head bowed. Then he straightened and took a deep breath. "Mary, go. Now. Hurry." His words pierced the trepid silence as his voice betrayed the terror that they both felt.

And Mary was out the door in an instant, skirts flying as she ran. Every fiber of her being understood the danger of the situation all too well. She knew how much her husband cared for their patient and she knew that Holmes must be reached before it was too late.

So she ran, arms pumping and legs flailing, as fast as she could towards Baker Street. Tears streamed down her cheeks as astonished citizens stared after her. But she didn't notice, nor did she care. She would do what her husband asked. She would always do as he asked. And she was running. Running faster than she had ever run before.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson gave a sigh of frustration as she stirred her bowl of cake batter. Even though the doctor had cautioned her against rich treats, a cake would undoubtedly solve much of their problems. At least it would take her mind off of the terrible events of the past few days.

Mr. Holmes had cautioned her about using the water without boiling it, saying that nothing was to be trusted in these troubled times. And, judging by what she had seen, he was right. She didn't understand what was causing the illness. She didn't understand why it spread. All she understood was that death was running unchecked through the city streets. And it needed to be stopped.

A pain in her stomach caused her to pause and she pressed a hand to her midsection, wincing slightly. But the pain disappeared as fast as it had begun and she shook herself mentally. She was becoming paranoid. Mr. Holmes had also warned her about physiological symptoms. She would immediately know the difference between phantom pains and the real thing. But her paranoia was certainly understandable. Cholera was such a horrible way to die.

She was interrupted in her work by a frantic pounding on the front door. "Mrs. Hudson!" a female voice cried out, sounding panicked and out of breath. "Mr. Holmes! Please! Open the door!" Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. Hudson hurried towards the door and wrenched it open. Mary Watson stood on the doorstep, her face tearstained and terrified.

"Mrs. Watson! Are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson gasped in astonishment, ushering her inside. "What's happened?"

"We need Mr. Holmes at John's practice," she gasped out, wiping her face with her filthy apron. "Please, Mrs. Hudson, tell him to hurry. It's Davey Wiggins."

Mrs. Hudson's jaw dropped. She turned to fetch Mr. Holmes but he had already appeared at her side.

"Is he all right, Mary?" he asked, seeming to already know the answer.

"Hurry, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Watson let out a cry of frustration as his patient seemed to have slipped into the final coma. "Wiggins, old thing, _hold on_!" The words came out in a clenched howl of agony as he worked feverishly to save him. He was running out of stamina, knowing that it was only a matter of time. If Wiggins had waited too long to ask for assistance, there was only so much that he could do.

Wiggins opened his eyes again, offering Watson a weary smile. His face appeared lifeless and exhausted; he seemed barely able to keep his eyes open. "Eh, Dr. Watson? What was that?"

Watson didn't allow himself to feel relief at the sight of his eyes, as lifeless as they appeared. "You should have come to me sooner." He scolded, jabbing the needle into the vein and injecting the healing solution, as if there was much good that it would be able do for the boy now. "You know that I would have helped you in a heartbeat. Why did you wait this long?"

Wiggins moaned softly, attempting shifting his weight into a more comfortable position. Beads of perspiration began to appear on his forehead. He coughed violently for a long period before he was able to get himself under control. "Doctor, I couldn't have come earlier if I had wanted to."

"And why not?" It wasn't often that John Watson lost control. As he now stared down at this boy, he struggled to clear the images that flooded his brain. Blood and disease. Death. Death…now, faced with the death of this bright young thing, it was becoming difficult to stay his temper. He loved the boy as a son. He always had. And now it appeared that he would die because of his trademark stubbornness. Oh, why did this have to happen?

"I've been doing work for Mr. Holmes." Wiggins sucked in his breath as his words sounded disturbingly matter-of-fact. "Trying to get to the bottom of this cholera business once and for all."

"Holmes wouldn't wish this death on you as you are fully aware." Watson swallowed hard at the thought of Holmes. How was he going to tell him what happened? How would the detective react to such a turn of events?

"Dr. Watson, people are dying every day. I knew that I had to do all that I could to stop the fatalities," There was something about the cool gaze of the young man that was disarming. That was one of the worst bits about this disease. The victim will remain fully aware of his condition up until the end. It made a feverous delusion look like a kindness.

Watson swallowed hard and nodded for Wiggins to continue, avoiding his gaze as he wrung out a damp cloth and put it on the boy's forehead. Wiggins coughed into his shoulder, obviously trying to avoid the haunted gaze of the doctor.

"Mr. Holmes told me to look into that old Broad Street business," Wiggins continued. "I have some pals in the area and we reckoned that we'd do a thing or two to see if we could find anything to help us out. Turned out that Broad Street seems to be where the cholera started out again."

"Really?" Watson paused for a moment, considering the words. He must help Holmes 'get to the bottom of the business' no matter what happened to the boy, as much as it pained him to admit it. "Go on,"

"Someone related to Mrs. Sarah Lewis is still living at 40 Broad Street. I took special note of that. Thought that Mr. Holmes might find that interesting."

"Indeed he might," Watson injected his patient with the syringe once more and Wiggins winced slightly. "I'm sorry,"

"Mr. Holmes didn't approve of our recon mission. He told us not to worry about it. Scotland Yard would take care of it, he told us. Don't get involved," Wiggins gave a dry chuckle and shook his head again. "Mr. Holmes and I have been mapping out the deaths. It's taken us ages but I think that we've tracked the disease to the source. He has the map at his flat. You should take a look at it as soon as you can." The uninspired matter-of-fact tone that left the boy's tongue frightened Watson as he pursed his lips.

"I'll worry about maps after you are well, Wiggins."

The failing boy chose to ignore the last statement. "Me and me lads were closing in on the culprit, Doctor." He said passionately, trying to sit up against Watson's scolding hand and slipping into his native Cockney accent in his excitement. "We heard 'em in their 'ouse. They was goin' on about it like they was proud of it. It was just like me and Mr. 'olmes thought. It was where theys crossed."

"Who was, Wiggins?" asked Watson frantically. "What do you mean?"

Wiggins gave a cry of pain as he doubled over, his face contorted with an uncontrollable agony. Cursing furiously, Watson removed the syringe from the boy's arm and desperately tried to suck more of the solution up from the bowl. Wiggins cried out again, his eyes squeezed shut against the hurting.

The door flew open with a great bang and Holmes appeared, moving from the doorway to the bedside in a matter of a millisecond. "Wiggins, speak to me. Are you all right?"

Wiggins seemed unable to articulate words as the muscle spasms grew worse. The only sounds that could be heard were his frantic gasps and cries of pain as the disease ravaged his rapidly failing body.

"Wiggins!" Holmes cried out in alarm, taking the boy's hand and looking helpless. He seemed rapt with the horror of the situation. "No!"

Wiggins gave a final cry before succumbing to unconsciousness. "Watson?" demanded Holmes, casting a pleading look at the doctor over his shoulder. "Can't you do anything?"

"I can try." Watson plunged the needle into his skin but he knew that it was too late. He had never felt this helpless, not even during his years as an army medico. There was absolutely nothing that they could do. And both he and Holmes knew that fact all too well. Why was this happening to them?

Over the next few hours, he and Holmes worked feverishly to save the young man but they both knew that it was useless. It had always been terrifying to consider that cholera could kill a healthy, grown man in a matter of hours. Wiggins had always been a strong man but, as they sat next to his bedside, they both knew that there was no hope.

Finally, Wiggins yielded to his unrelenting illness, his pulse growing thin before suddenly becoming nonexistent. Davey Wiggins allowed his lungs to take one last breath before he left this world.

For a long time, all they could do was marvel in horror at the lifeless body of this great man. How many times had Wiggins appeared at their side, ready for anything, as the leader of the Irregulars? Surely more times than either of them could count.

Together, they had seen Wiggins transform from a scrawny street boy into a handsome young man willing to do anything they asked. This man, this…hero had given his life in order to save London. But Watson could only wonder if the information the boy had been able to pass to him would make this sacrifice worth the pain that they felt in their very bones.

Holmes could only stand there numbly because he knew that it was his fault that this bright young man now lay dead before them. And he felt incredibly guilty. Because he knows that this is one mistake that he will never be able to repair.

"He was trying to say something." Said Watson, his voice barely above a whisper. "Right before he died. Something about your map, I think it was."

"Map?" said Holmes distractedly, not taking his eyes off the boy. Who cared about maps at a time like this?

"Yes. He said that he and the Irregulars were closing in on the culprits. He had actually heard them planning out their next move."

"Where?"

"He said that it was….where they crossed. Right where you thought they did."

"Were those his exact words?"

Watson was silent for a moment. "Yes."

Holmes dropped his gaze to stare at his shoes. "Oh Wiggins," he murmured softly. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to put you in this situation. Surely you knew that."

Watson watched the pain of this great man as he held the hand of the dead man before them. Sherlock Holmes had always been strong; Watson had often thought that nothing could faze him. What had this epidemic done to his dear friend?

Holmes struggled to his feet, his strength appeared to have given out entirely and he nearly toppled over as he began to rise. Watson had to lunge to catch him and keep him from falling. When Holmes was able to steady himself, Watson left him to pour his friend a brandy, hoping that the liquid would help return his friend to the land of the living.

Holmes reluctantly took the glass and downed the brandy in a single gulp. His entire body shuddered and he looked at Watson with a sadness that the other man would not have believed possible. He seemed unable to speak but there was no need for words.

Holmes hurried away before Watson could offer him any comfort. He had never seen Holmes like this. Watson could only imagine the emotions that were going through the detective's mind, perhaps emotions that he was unfamiliar with.

Mary appeared at his side as he closed the door of his practice room behind him. Her beautiful face was deathly pale as she put a trembling hand on her husband's shoulder. "What happened?" she asked softly, even though she knew the answer just by looking at his face.

He just shook his head numbly, unable to speak, staring at the whitewashed wall. Mary swallowed hard, pulling him into a silent embrace. "Oh John," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

In her loving arms, he finally allowed the tears to fall. They slipped down his rugged cheeks as he simply let her hold him, banishing all other thoughts from his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

It was almost impossible for Holmes to keep his emotions in check as he strode down the streets toward Baker Street. A swirl of feeling threatened to engulf him as he walked. Pain. Grief. Numbness. Whoever would have thought that it was possible to feel so much and so little at the same time?

" _I have a job for you, Wiggins." Holmes had looked at the young man with a feeling of something that resembled regret. Gone were the days when a shilling could entice Davey Wiggins into performing a task for him. And yet, the boy remained totally willing to remain at his side and do whatever he asked. Surely he didn't deserve such kindness._

" _What is it, Mr. Holmes?" He could see the bright eagerness in the young man as he tasted the idea of a potential task on his tongue._

" _I need you to get the Irregulars together. We have to hunt down a murderer."_

_Wiggins just smiled, his surprisingly white teeth seeming to gleam in the sunlight._

He moved past the questioning Mrs. Hudson without a word as he entered the flat, moving into the sitting room and slamming the door behind him, knowing that she wouldn't follow. He approached the map that they had been creating with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach because he knew what he would find. He removed the dust cover and cast it aside, revealing the vast piece of paper marked with scribbles, circles, lines, and colors.

This map had been their project for the past few days. It was incredibly detailed; an example of Wiggins's street smarts that had been acquired over the years. Every street, alley and niche in London was on this piece of paper; common knowledge to those who had made their homes in the dingy underworld of the city.

" _Are you absolutely certain, Wiggins?" Holmes could barely contain his own excitement; the young man's eagerness didn't exactly help._

" _Absolutely, Mr. Holmes. But me and the boys want to check it out a bit further. There's still things that we wants to know."_

" _No." There had been no resignations in his voice when he spoke. "I forbid you to go back there until the Yard has had a chance to look around. It's too dangerous."_

" _But Mr. Holmes, we know what we's doing. We'll be fine."_

" _Wiggins -"_

_But Wiggins was gone without another word and Holmes was left shaking his head._

His eyes traveled to the spot that he knew Wiggins had meant. The answer was so incredible that he had dismissed it as being impossible. But Wiggins had a certain quality about him that didn't allow him to believe that anything was impossible. Against the better judgment of Holmes, Wiggins had decided to take the Irregulars into the belly of the beast and find out the answer to this puzzle once and for all.

Wiggins must have figured it out. But in the process, he alerted the killers. Somehow, they had been able to get the V. Cholerae bacterium into his system. It wouldn't have surprised him to discover that they had been on his tail. But if Wiggins hadn't realized who they were….

'I should have stopped them,' he thought to himself quietly.

Holmes swallowed hard before mentally shaking himself and observing the map once more. He took a deep breath and decided that it was time for this killer to be brought to justice. No matter what the cost. Because now, this murderer had reached a new level. This case had just touched him personally. And no one should be able to harm the ones who were closest to him. Not without paying for it with their own life.

* * *

Lestrade banged his fist against the desk and let out a growl of frustration. He had spent the better part of the past hour analyzing police reports, hoping to discover some pattern in the outbreak of the disease. But no luck. He'd had men patrolling every major street corner, alley, and entrance into the city. So why couldn't they find what they sought?

Admittedly, an epidemic on this scale was not unusual for London. But the fact that it was being deliberately caused absolutely frightened all involved. There was no getting around this fact anymore.

Holmes apparently had had a visitor who provided some kind of evidence that boosted this theory. But deliberate attempts on the lives of hundreds…what kind of person were they dealing with?

There was a brief knock on the door and Inspector Gregson came in with a stack of papers.

"Fresh police reports," he stated, tossing them down on the desk with a look of disgust. "But I don't think that you'll find anything in there that we didn't already know."

Lestrade gritted his teeth. "This is pointless, Gregson," he growled. "We've been scouring the city for days, using up precious manpower, and for what? What have we uncovered? Nothing."

"That may be so," admitted Gregson. "But I don't think that we should give up on this now."

"Why not?" demanded Lestrade, wincing as he grabbed the stack of papers too quickly, resulting in a twinging paper cut. He growled at the pain, shaking the blood from his thumb so that little scarlet droplets sprayed the pages of the reports.

"Well, there's the public to consider, isn't there?" said Gregson. "They're all terrified and for good reason. Isn't it better for the Yard to look like they're actually trying to put a stop to all this? What else can we do?"

Lestrade sighed. "I suppose you're right. But it will look equally bad if we don't make any progress. How are you supposed to catch a lunatic poisoner?"

"Well," Gregson paused for a moment, considering. "He has to be in a position to contaminate the water supply, presumably, because the disease is transferred by ingestion. And he's able to contaminate many different wells all over the city. We know that because the epidemic seems to be so random."

"So what does that tell us?"

"Well, for one thing it tells us that he knows his way around the city. He's in a position to know how to go about his business without getting caught, which suggests that he's the kind of person who's not easily noticed."

"That helps us all so much, Gregson. All we have to do now is arrest every bloody person who's not easily noticed in the city and we've got our man." drawled Lestrade sarcastically.

"Here me out, old boy," said Gregson, calmingly patting Lestrade's arm. He was used to Lestrade's infrequent bursts of temper. Lestrade just glared at him. "All you have to do is -"

Gregson was interrupted by a rapid knocking on the door. "Come in!" called Lestrade irritably. "And get a move on."

The door opened to reveal Sherlock Holmes. The face of the taller man was grim and pale and he clutched a thin roll of paper in his left hand. "Inspector Lestrade," he said bleakly by way of greeting.

"What do you want, Holmes?" asked Lestrade, rising from his desk and crossing his arms in annoyance. "I'm in the middle of an important investigation, you know. An investigation that _you_ have offered very little help with. I can't handle this on my own. You have to give us something. We're coming up dry and you know it!"

"Wiggins is dead."

Lestrade froze at the sound of the words. Three words. Three words that had the ability to crush his heart and steal his breath. Wiggins? Dead? Was it even possible?

"I'm sorry, Holmes." said Gregson quietly, apparently able to recover from the shock a great deal more readily than his companion. "How did it happen?"

"He was the latest victim," said Holmes through clenched teeth. "This disease has run loose for far too long. It's time for the reign to end."

"What exactly do you propose, Holmes?" snapped Lestrade, apparently having regained his cool. "We're doing the best we can."

Holmes didn't say a word but slammed his clenched fist onto the desk and threw the roll onto the wood. "It's all there." he said dangerously. "Everything you need to catch your man."

"Aren't you going to help us?" asked Gregson. "This isn't like you to abandon a case just before the chase."

"That was before, Gregson." said Holmes, turning to leave. "I want nothing more to do with this until you catch the culprit. And when you do, I want to speak with him. Personally."

"What have you done, Holmes?" asked Gregson, crossing his arms. "What really happened to Wiggins?"

Holmes paused for a split second, not turning around. Then he left the room without a word. Gregson watched him go and then turned back to face Lestrade, who was the in process of unrolling the paper. "What is it?"

Lestrade didn't answer for a moment. Together, the two of them stared at the paper. It appeared to be a map of sorts, scribbled with lines, dots and circles. He sucked in his breath sharply as realization smacked him over the head like a club. He looked up at Gregson and saw the same understanding in the other man's eyes. The same solid determination. And the same need for action. The game was on and this sickening serial killer would hang. The sooner, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

Watson crouched uncomfortably in the puddle of water that Holmes had positioned him next to. Somehow, during the aggravated shuffling that had occurred when the rain had decided to dump what must have been several bucketfuls of water on top of him, he had lost his balance and tumbled into the puddle.

A few hours before, Holmes had appeared on his front step, excitedly pounding a dent into the wood of his door. Naturally, the sound of the knocking had led him to assume that yet another poor beggar was close to death. But no. When he had opened the door, he discovered a strikingly different Sherlock Holmes to the one who had dejectedly left his practice earlier in the day.

The eyes of the detective seemed to glitter with anticipation excitement as he quickly explained the situation: Lestrade had been sent off to track down the killers and he was relying on Watson to assist him. Or so Watson gathered. In any case, he decided that it was time to get his coat and assist his friend.

It had been so long since they had worked on a case together; this was one of the downfalls of his decision to marry. Neither of the friends would admit it but they were relieved to be doing something.

Watson had frankly been worried about his friend ever since the business had begun. Why hadn't he been investigating in the same way that they were used to? It was unlike Holmes to go this long without any legwork and legwork was exactly what they needed in a case like this.

"I am relying on you to remain here and survey Lestrade's work." This was all that Holmes had to offer when Watson inquired why he had been told to crouch behind a barrel near the local fishmonger.

Watson was very familiar with the fact that Holmes had specific methods in place. From what he could gather, Holmes had led Lestrade to believe that he was abandoning the case; he had provided the Yard with the necessary information to nab the criminal. But Holmes wanted more than the capture of the one who had caused the terror. He wanted answers.

"Have there been any developments?"

Watson jumped at the sound of the detective's voice and he turned to see Holmes pulling his cap down over his eyes and his coat tightly around his shoulders. "Holmes. No, thing that I've seen." He could see keen grey eyes gleaming from under the cap, trained specifically on the shop across the street from their position.

The cobblestones of the street shone with rainwater, little rivers flowing between the cracks. Every so often, a rat would scamper across or a small child would skip through with an aggravated mother in tow. At first glance, this street seemed to be like any other. And it was. Except for the house that rose up in front of them.

40 Broad Street was an old house, originally from the late 1700s and it had the architectural problems to prove it. Obviously, nobody had thought to put the maintenance into the structure that was desperately needed. The result was a crumbling mess that dominated much of the street.

The house was supposed to be uninhabitable because of the damage. However, the walls were never without occupants; such a rundown house was the perfect hiding place for anyone who didn't want to be found because no one wanted to venture inside.

"I suppose that you have questions." Holmes didn't take his eyes off of the front door.

"Yes," Watson admitted. "What are we doing here? Why didn't you decide to work with Inspector Lestrade?"

"Because I wish to perform my task in my own way without any outside interference."

"And what task would that be?"

Holmes sighed. "Do you remember when I told you that Oliver Kensington had visited me shortly before he died?"

Watson nodded.

"He came to visit me to tell me of his suspicions. Somehow, before the disease fully took hold of London, he knew that it was being deliberately spread. How could he know such a thing? At that point, there were so few deaths related to cholera that no one had any idea that such an epidemic would take place."

"I see what you mean," said Watson slowly. "So, does that mean that he was in on it?"

"I believe that he certainly played a part in the instigation. Consider the fact that he was one of the first people to die." Holmes released his hold on his cap to glance over at Watson.

"Did he play his part knowingly?"

"Wiggins did a great deal of investigation for me before his death. One of the things that he and the other Irregulars discovered was the fact that Kensington was seen dealing with someone living inside 40 Broad Street. He left the residence with a small jar, presumably containing some kind of culture."

"Was he the one who contaminated the water?" asked Watson.

"No, Watson. Not directly. Kensington was given a job by our murderer. He was to infect a single person with the disease so that our murderer could test out a new remedy, much like a vaccination."

"And the person he infected died. But why would that convince him that the man was trying to start a deliberate epidemic?"

"It didn't," said Holmes. "At that point it would have been easy to convince Kensington that the death was an accident. The remedy was unsuccessful. I believe that our man must have paid Kensington off quite handsomely."

"What makes you think so?"

"The ring, Watson. It shone to perfection. The signet crest was old but the ring itself was new. I am certain that he replaced the ring with a new one, using the money from the murderer."

"Why would he want a new ring? Wouldn't it be simpler to purchase something more practical considering how he has lived his life these past few months?" asked Watson.

"Consider his background," said Holmes. "A man like Kensington would not find it easy to go without the luxuries of his previous life for long."

"I suppose that makes sense," said Watson. "Then the continued deaths related to cholera must have alerted him to the fact that the murderer was…I don't know. Experimenting?"

"Experimenting, Watson!" Holmes clapped his hands together and exhaled sharply. "You have hit the nail directly on the head. In essence, that it why they have all died. Kensington alone was a deliberate cold blooded murder."

"So, our murderer must have killed him to keep him quiet about the experimenting. But why start experimenting to start with?"

"As a medical man, you are very aware of the fact that diseases mutate to adapt to their surroundings," said Holmes. "Cholera is now a very different disease than it was in the past fifty years. Our man is also a man with medical knowledge. He understood that the disease is different and that it warrants further study."

"So he planned to infect the entire population of London?" asked Watson in disbelief. "That seems a bit farfetched, Holmes."

"Not the entire population. If you recall, the flare-ups have been strictly random."

"And they often burn out as fast as they occur," mused Watson.

"That is as merciful as a serial killer can often get. His sole intention was to study the effects of the disease and what methods could be used to control it. Once he determined whether or not a population was good material to test his theories out on, he could act appropriately and cut the disease off at the best possible time."

"But how could he hope to monitor so many people? Surely someone would notice if the same person turned up at all of the breakouts of disease."

"Ah, but that is the beauty of this case, Watson," said Holmes. "Because our killer is one of the many faceless people who walk through London on a daily basis. The ones that we see and we feel comforted by their presence. But we never see their faces. They patrol the streets, protecting us and making absolutely certain that no trouble is caused. And we never once give a thought to their outside identities," He paused, cocking his head to listen to a rustle from inside the house. "Shhhh!"

Watson froze obediently, willing the sound to clarify in his addled brain. Someone was moving about behind the window.

One of Lestrade's plainclothes men came up whistling up the street, twirling a gold tipped cane as he went. His eyes met Watson's and the man nodded. He had heard the sound as well. The man looked to Holmes and nodded again. Lestrade knew that they were there.

This wasn't particularly surprising; Lestrade certainly wasn't thick enough to believe that they had abandoned the case on a moment's notice. He had counted on their being there.

The man had now gone past the house and out of sight. The board was set and they were now prepared to wait. They didn't have long.

The door opened and a thin, scrawny looking man stepped into the mist, clutching a briefcase to his chest. He closed the door behind him, his face concealed behind a heavy scarf and hat. He stepped into the rain, walking with quick, light steps and looking very deliberately down at the cobblestones.

Watson barely stifled a gasp as Lestrade put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, one finger on clenched lips. One the man had gone past their hiding place, the three men slowly stood up.

"Follow him," Lestrade mouthed, waving for his men to do just that.

"Go on ahead, Lestrade," said Holmes, looking thoughtfully at the house. "I will meet you back at the Yard tonight."

"Are you sure Holmes?" said Watson, looking after the disappearing plainclothesmen.

Holmes simply nodded and Lestrade took a deep breath of exasperation before following his men.

Once Homes and Watson were inside the house, Watson felt a certain relief now that he was not in the rain again. However, that relief was short lived as the full impact of their surroundings managed to sink it.

They were standing in the foyer of the house. The tattered decorations must have been fine at one point. The once richly colored paintings were faded to greys and blacks. The tapestries were threadbare. The rugs, formerly embroidered with gold now appeared torn and dirty. Faded grandeur.

Venturing inside one of the front rooms, they could see that all the furnishings had been removed except for a single straight backed chair and simple wooden table. Culture jars littered the table and the floor, sporting sickening greens and reds. In the corner, an open box contained a change of clothing. In another corner, something seemed to be huddled on the floor. And then the stench reached their noses, causing them to gasp for breath and cover their noses in horror.

Moving closer, Holmes struck a match to reveal a decaying corpse, seemingly devoid of moisture. A cholera victim that the murderer had obviously been studying. Apparently, the stink of decaying flesh did little to deter him from his mission.

"Poor beggar," whispered Watson.

But Holmes had already lost interest in the corpse, moving now to examine the contents of the box. "You wanted to know how our murderer was able to examine the results of his experiment unnoticed, Watson."

He held up a black uniform. In the light of a second match, Watson was able to make out the brass buttons and stitching that is unique to the uniform of a London constable. Of course. Who else could wander the streets of London and no one thinks anything of it? Quite ingenious, really.

Holmes folded the uniform again and replaced it in the box. After one last look around the room, he got to his feet and looked over at Watson.

"I think that it is time to leave, Watson. We have everything that we came for."

Watson nodded slowly, casting another glance at the corpse in the corner and the moldy jars on the table. "Yes. I think that you're right. Will Inspector Lestrade be able to catch the killer?"

"Oh, I have complete faith in the abilities of Scotland Yard," said Holmes grimly. "In this instance, I prefer to allow them to do the legwork. I simply wish to speak to the man once it is over."

"Of course, Holmes."


	8. Chapter 8

Watson wrung his hands together as he listened to the shouting coming from the room opposite his chair. Holmes had entered the room about fifteen minutes earlier and then the quarrel had commenced. He knew exactly why they were arguing; he would have thought that Lestrade would have been able to figure out what Holmes wanted before he entered.

"I am simply asking for permission to visit with him for a ten minute period, Lestrade."

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but I simply cannot allow anyone to see him yet."

Holmes, so unlike his usual collected self, sounded absolutely furious, almost as if he could spit fire at a moment's notice. Even Lestrade sounded angry, though his anger was tainted with an almost silent sadness.

Scotland Yard had proved to be on top of their game when it came to the arrest of the serial killer. He had been in handcuffs not long after Holmes and Watson had peeled off. The inspectors at the Yard couldn't believe their luck when they were even fortunate enough to catch him in the act; he had been apprehended trying to poison the water supply of a small neighborhood, mostly home to those who had no home.

It had all gone so perfectly. But now, Lestrade was forbidden to allow anyone to visit the prisoner at this time. Conferences would only be allowed to take place once the trial had been scheduled. Watson was fairly certain that this was a ruse. The Yard simply didn't want to allow Holmes access.

In some ways, he didn't really blame them. The high and mighty officials were very aware of what had happened to Wiggins; Watson would hate to be in that man's shoes. Not only had he decimated a large fraction of London's population in the space of a week, but he had also proved to be the murderer of a friend. Holmes hadn't said it outright, but Watson was fairly certain that Wiggins's death was deliberate and cold blooded.

The door to Lestrade's office opened and he looked up to see Holmes and Lestrade looking quite grim. "Is everything all right?"

"I can allow you ten minutes with him, Holmes, that that's it," said Lestrade, ignoring the question. "If it gets out that I let you see him, the chief inspector won't be pleased, I can tell you."

"I understand, Lestrade." Sherlock was already gathering his hat and coat from the hook next to Watson's chair. "I will be brief."

"I do hope so, Holmes," said Lestrade quietly.

* * *

Holmes was standing outside of the door to the cell, waiting quietly as one of the officers on duty went to fetch the key. The door was one of many that lined the hallway. The stones of the floor were the color of sand and had once been polished to perfection but now they were dusty and spattered with brown specks from years of use. A window at one end of the hall provided a burst of sunshine that came streaming through the panes.

The officer returned with the rusty old key in hand. Holmes considered stopping the man from opening the door for a moment, as an unfamiliar feeling swept over his body. It was more than mere nervousness. It was fear. But fear is so akin to rage that he crushed it beneath his boot and said nothing.

The door opened and he stepped through into the cell. The door closed behind him and he mentally took a deep breath as he faced the occupant.

The prisoner was sitting on the stiff, wooden bed with his head in his hands. On the splintery tabletop next to him was an untouched meal of meat and potatoes but the water cup was dry. The atmosphere of gloom was so thick that Holmes could have taken it in both hands and snapped it in half. How fitting for the situation.

"Do you know who I am?" He chose his first words slowly and carefully, tasting them on his tongue as he spoke. It would not do to become angry at this stage.

The man slowly looked up and Holmes could take in his full appearance. He was dressed in the same ratty suit that he had been arrested in and what little hair he possessed was filthy and stood on end, making him appear quite monstrous. The gleam that he would have expected to see in the eyes was absent, replaced with a dull sheen.

"You're that bloke the rich kid went to see," The accent was educated and Holmes was fairly certain that he detected a slight Scottish brogue.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he said in the same careful tone.

"You're the one that put the police on my back." It was a statement, not a question. The man was not quite as stupid as he appeared.

"Why did you kill them?"

"Why are you asking? You already know." His eyes seemed to go from black to green as he straightened his back and shook his head slowly. The educated accent was slowly being replaced by the Scottish undertones that he had detected. "You see, I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes. I know you're a clever man. So go on, then. Impress me with your powers of deductions."

"I know that you were acting under orders," said Holmes.

"But the police don't, do they?"

"No," said Holmes firmly. "And they aren't going to until I am ready to tell them."

"Are they really so stupid as to think that I arranged all this on me own?" The man laughed out loud at that. "I may be a doctor but I'm no criminal mastermind. But you don't know who I was working for, do you?"

Holmes bit the inside of his cheek to keep his temper under control. "That's why I'm here."

"You think that I'm just goin' to tell you?" The laughter seemed to increase in depth. "Well, they didn't tell me you were stupid too."

"I didn't expect you to tell me. I want to know what it was that my boy came across that meant he needed to be killed."

"Was that the one who was coming about at all hours with a band of kids? Why did you go and set kids on me trail anyway? I thought you were better than that, Mr. Holmes."

"Wiggins was not a child," Holmes said, gritting his teeth. He could feel fury beginning to rise in his chest but he forced it down.

"I'd recommend checking your high and mighty map, Mr. Holmes," His face must have changed because the man allowed a grin to cross his face. "Don't think that I haven't been keeping my eye on you. Once I found out that you were on my trail, I started watching you. I know all about your map. I also know that it directly incriminates my boss."

"And you don't care?"

"Why should I?" The man shrugged. "It was just a job, like any other."

"I would call a job murdering innocent citizens a job 'like any other'," said Holmes dryly.

"Maybe you don't, but there's plenty that would. That map was quite clever, even for you. Something that charts all of the killings, showing that they converge upon a single point. Well done, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes chose to ignore the praise. "And what exactly does that mean? There are criminal rings in London, yes, but what would make yours different?"

The man studied his face for a long moment. "I know that you think you know who it is. But it's certainly not what you think. He would have been cleverer than this. But that's the genius of this project: it's so simple that we wouldn't be suspected."

"Then what was the real purpose of this? You're not telling me that you wanted to be noticed."

"Noticed? Certainly not. We've been around longer than you have and we wouldn't want to be dissolved, now would we?" He shrugged. "All we wanted was to play a bit of a game with you. Wouldn't want to you to be bored. And we could do a bit of research in the interest of science at the same time. Golden combination."

Before the man knew what had happened, Holmes had grasped his throat in one hand, the other clutching at a revolver that was now pointed at his chest. He gasped, half in surprise and half in need of air at the movement that had been so fluid that he had had no idea what was happening until it had happened.

They stood like this for a long time, staring into each others eyes: the mad and the sane, but which was which? One set of eyes held a mix of fury and determination. The other was challenging and mocking.

"You wouldn't shoot me, Mr. Holmes. You'll swing for this. The mighty inspector knew that something like this would happen if you were allowed to see me. He knew that you wanted me dead."

"I want justice," said Holmes through gritted teeth. "You may be convicted but it's unlikely that you will get more than accomplice to murder."

"And that's exactly what I am. I'm just a puppet. It's my boss that you want."

Holmes tightened his grip on the throat and the words were cut off. "You may not have planned it but you killed those people. Including someone very close to me."

"We all lose people that are close to us, Mr. Holmes," the man sneered, one hand clutching at the fist at his throat. "Even the immortal detectives that reign over the rest of us. It proves that you are actually human."

They locked eyes again, predator and prey. Two hands, one from each man, grasped at the barrel of the gun, twisting the aim from person to person. A finger slid around the trigger, stroking it with unutterable tenderness. One man raised an eyebrow in a challenge. The other man gritted his teeth.

Holmes took a deep breath, sucking air back into lungs that had forgotten to inhale. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he swallowed hard. He would have to do it.

"May God forgive me."

_*BANG*_


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade could feel his gut tightening as Gregson made his report. He might have known that Holmes would get into some kind of trouble but nothing could have prepared him to discover exactly what trouble the detective had managed to stir up. The bloody man had only been in there for about ten minutes, for heaven's sake.

"Is he in stable condition, Gregson?"

"I believe so," said Gregson dryly. "He has Dr. Watson looking after him like a mother hen. From what the good doctor has told me, I think that we can safely believe that Mr. Holmes will make a full recovery."

Lestrade exhaled and shook his head. "Was Mr. Land the one who wielded the gun?"

"It's difficult to say. We know that Mr. Holmes was the one who brought the gun into the cell. I would wager that the gun went off in the struggle and that it was an accident."

"But why would Holmes have brought a gun into the cell in the first place?" asked Lestrade, gritting his teeth. "He must have known that something like this would happen. Of course he knew."

"We won't be able to ask him 'til he comes round," said Gregson. "But I think that we both know the answer to that."

"He doesn't have to be a hero," said Lestrade. "We are capable of occasionally convicting killers without his help."

Gregson chuckled, which only served to annoy his fellow inspector all the more.

"There's nothing amusing about this, Gregson. We were this close to convicting a serial killer."

"We still can, Lestrade. Nothing has changed in that department," said Gregson, shrugging. "If Mr. Holmes were to die, that would only intensify the case against him. If he lives, the fact that he was attacked at all doesn't exactly work against us."

Lestrade sighed, settling himself back into his chair. "It's just that I know that Holmes is keeping something from us. Why else would his conversation have ended with a bullet in his shoulder?"

"That's true," Gregson allowed. "I suppose that you'll just have to ask him that yourself."

"I suppose so. Is there any hope that he will come out of it before the trial?"

"There's always hope, Lestrade. In the case of our Mr. Holmes, I think that he's strong enough to make a full recovery before we know it," said Gregson.

* * *

Watson sat next to the bedside of his friend, watching his unconscious chest move steadily up and down with his breathing. He shook his head in frustration, willing the eyes of the detective to open.

Almost four hours ago, he and Lestrade had heard a gunshot ring out from behind the closed door of the cell. A few seconds later, they had burst into the cell to discover Holmes lying unconscious in a steadily growing pool of blood with a gun not far from his outstretched hand. The hand of the prisoner, a man named Jacob Land, was still resting on the barrel.

Holmes had initially been taken to a hospital, despite Watson's protests; he would have felt a great deal more comfortable if he had been the one to diagnose the seriousness of the wound, not having to worry about what another doctor said. But once they had been satisfied that the wound was not serious, they had patched him up and released him to the care of his flat mate.

It had taken a while for Watson to be equally sure that Holmes would recover. Mrs. Hudson had hovered over his shoulder, fairly clucking with anticipation as he worked. Finally, they both had realized that there was nothing more they could do and that they would have to leave the rest to Holmes.

Watson was loathe to admit it but he was furious at what had happened. The Yard knew that Holmes was the one to bring the gun into the cell in the first place. It seemed that there had been some kind of struggle and the gun went off accidentally. That was believable enough, he supposed.

The door behind him opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She came in softly, closing the door behind her. "How is he, Dr. Watson?"

"He certainly seems better, Mrs. Hudson. I don't see why he hasn't regained consciousness yet."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "It would not surprise me at all if Mr. Holmes were toying with us."

"Mrs. Hudson, that is quite an accusation." Watson attempted to sound disapproving but the sentence ended in a laugh that he couldn't quite smother. She was right, of course. How right she was.

* * *

The man who was hurrying down the street would have been invisible to the average passerby. Through years of experience, he was now able to pass through London as he pleased and no one was ever the wiser. This suited him, for he had very important knowledge to pass along to his employer and he had no desire to be interrupted.

His path through the backstreets showed just how knowledgeable he was about London's geography. Granted, a man in his position had to have such knowledge if he wanted to do his job right.

Michael Yorick might not have been the most well known of kind. The names of his employers were much more feared among the lowlife and criminals that inhabited London: Moriarty and Moran, just to name a few.

Nevertheless, he had often found that being the equivalent of a nobody to the rest of the world certainly had advantages. Some might call him a spy, but he preferred to think of himself as being employed among the classes of the criminals for hire employed by Moriarty. If someone came to his boss looking for a job well done, he was one of the men fortunate enough to be called on. And he was one of the best.

His route now took him to an abandoned shipyard on the banks of the Thames, the perfect hiding place for their kind of work. Perfect because it was so deliciously obvious.

He ducked under the hull of an incomplete ship, allowing the darkness to close in over him. He could feel the sand beneath his shoes as he picked his way over crates and tools to the very back. His hand reached and felt around on the decomposing wood of the hull until he found a metal ring. And he pulled. Hard.

* * *

Watson straightened up in his chair as Holmes appeared to stir in his sleep. A moment later, the detective opened his eyes and Watson allowed himself to exhale.

Holmes glanced around the room, seemingly in some confusion. Then his eyes seemed to focus and he blinked several times.

"How do you feel, Holmes?" asked John, quietly.

Holmes reached his good arm towards his injured shoulder and grimaced. "As well as can be expected, Watson," he said dryly. His gaze traveled from Watson's face to Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson,"

"You gave us quite a turn, Mr. Holmes," she said, her face coming alive with relief at the sight of his eyes. "It's so good to have you have you back with us."

"Thank you for your concern but I assure you that I'm quite – ahhh," the sentence ended in a groan of pain as Holmes attempted to lift himself up on his good elbow; his injured shoulder had something to say about that. He was able to recover from the grimace long enough to look pointedly at Mrs. Hudson.

She seemed willing enough to take the hint now that she was satisfied that he was no longer on death's doorstep. She gathered up her skirts in one hand and hurried out the door, leaving the two men alone.

Once she had gone, Holmes allowed himself to fall back on the bed, exhaling sharply at the relief from the stabbing in his shoulder. He avoided looking at Watson, knowing that if he did, he would find the question that he would rather not answer.

Watson, apparently, decided to ask it anyway. "What happened, Holmes? The police are saying that it was an accident."

"And don't you believe that?"

"I know you, Holmes," said Watson simply.

Holmes sighed, rolling his neck back and forth in a futile attempt to relieve the pain. "I suppose that you think I encouraged him."

"I don't know the details," Watson admitted. He paused for a long moment, studying his friend's face. Then he shook his head. "You shot yourself, didn't you." It was a statement instead of a question.

"And why in the world would I do that?" asked Holmes, feigning innocence.

"I would imagine that you wanted to get the attention of whoever the real killer was."

"Land was the real killer, Watson. The entire operation was his idea. All he needed was someone to cover his tracks." Holmes looked pointedly at Watson.

"Moriarty."

* * *

Colonel Sebastian Moran slammed his palm down on the table in fury, causing Yorick to jump. "Are you absolutely certain, Yorick?"

"I'm afraid that there is no doubt, sir."

"How could he have been foolish enough to shoot Sherlock Holmes?" Moran seemed very capable of spitting out flames. "Did he completely lose his mind?"

"I don't know, sir," said Yorick, shrugging. "But it is expected that Mr. Holmes will make a full recovery. It's not serious."

"What did Land tell Holmes before the shooting? How much does he know about our operation?"

"Does it matter? He won't find us. No one ever traces crimes back to us," said Yorick, pushing his chest out in a ridiculous attempt at looking prideful.

"You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do, Yorick," said Moran grimly. "He is not one of the blundering members of Scotland Yard who can barely find their hand in front of their face. He is something else entirely."

"What exactly do you plan to do, then?" asked Yorick. "If Land really did shoot him as badly as he says he did, he'll be out of the game for weeks at least."

"Land is a boasting fool. Nothing he says can be trusted. We never should have agreed to take on his case," spat Moran.

"How could we have known?"

"Scientists are all the same: totally mad. He's put us at risk and that must be stopped."

"What do you plan to do?" asked Yorick, not quite wanting to hear the answer.

"Our first priority is to silence Land. Then we go after Holmes," he said carefully. "There's a score between the two of us that I want to settle."

"Shouldn't we notify the professor?" asked Yorick nervously.

"There is no need to disturb him," said Moran carelessly. "I can handle Holmes on my own,"

"I certainly hope so, sir."


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next two days, Holmes appeared to be making a steady recovery, though his shoulder still caused him considerable discomfort. Of course, he would never had admitted that fact to Watson; the good doctor was still very disapproving of his strategy for attracting the attention of Moriarty.

Holmes admitted to himself that Watson was probably right. He had only shot himself in a moment of madness. It had been skilled madness because the police were oblivious to the fact that Holmes had deliberately wielded the weapon but it was madness nonetheless.

He was certain that Moriarty had escaped from Reichenbach Falls; if he had, it only made sense to assume that the criminal mastermind was clever enough to do the same.

Of course, he was fully aware of the fact that Land had been only one of the countless criminals assisted by Moriarty and his gang. That much was clear. Moriarty was protecting Land in exchange for knowledge. It must be knowledge because serial killing with a disease doesn't exactly bring in a large profit. It wasn't exactly Moriarty's normal style of a crime but even he could see the certain elegance in such a crime as this. How could he resist?

It would only be a matter of time before his rival would send someone to deal with him. The police no longer interested either of them; they were clueless to the link and Holmes would much rather that it stayed that way.

He wasn't quite sure just how much Watson knew about the situation. But it was safer that he remain ignorant until Holmes knew more himself.

For the time being, he was confined to quarters with Watson keeping an eye on him like some kind of protective watchdog. Frankly, he hated being in this situation. He'd gotten through so many worse circumstances than this on his own. A man in his scientific position had to expect a few injuries from wayward experiments.

But he knew better than to go against Watson, especially if he hoped to slip away at any time. He was aware of the fact that Watson was merely being kind and that he cared. Somehow, that didn't make the motherly behavior any easier to bear.

On the second morning after he had revived, he was sitting down to breakfast when Watson brought in the post from the foyer. Holmes scanned through the envelopes with little curiosity, knowing full well that there would be nothing that he would consider to be intriguing. He was wrong.

One envelope in particular stuck out to him. He wasn't certain if it was the distinct peculiarities of the handwriting or perhaps the expensive paper or maybe even the unfamiliar stamp in the corner. But something was definitely singular about it and he realized straight away that it deserved his attention. Not here, though. He slipped the envelope into his dressing gown pocket and proceeded to serve himself from the dish in the middle of the table.

Watson observed his newfound eating habits with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Did that bullet affect your stomach as well as your mind, Holmes?"

"I have no idea what you are referring to, Watson," said Holmes firmly. "I am allowed to eat however much I please, am I not?"

"Naturally. And I am pleased to see that you are taking care of yourself for a change. You might even find that you enjoy the results."

"Of course."

Holmes wasn't exactly about to tell Watson that his eating habits had not changed. He was only eating to throw suspicion off of him. Because if he was correct, the letter in his pocket was an invitation. Since he was already injured, it was probably a good idea to stack the deck in his favor.

He ate fairly quickly, though not quickly enough to arouse suspicion. "I think that I will retire for the time being," he announced to no one in particular.

"Are you feeling all right, Holmes?"

"Of course, Watson. I'm just tired, that's all." Holmes was careful to avoid the cool gaze of the doctor.

Watson just nodded. "I'll clear the breakfast things."

"Thank you,"

The door to the bedroom closed quietly behind him and he allowed himself to exhale, wincing as the sudden change in his diaphragm irritated his aching shoulder. This was a most inconvenient solution to his problem of finding Moriarty. But it had worked.

His eyes scanned the letter quickly, soaking in the information. Then he glanced over at his bed and swallowed hard. His hand reached for his dressing gown tie. It was time to prepare to leave.

A knocking at his door startled him as he removed his dressing gown and his head snapped towards the sound. "Who is it?"

"It's Watson, Holmes. Is there anything that you need? I'm just about to go out,"

"No," Holmes heard himself answering. "I am quite all right. Thank you, Watson,"

He could hear Watson's footsteps receding down the hall and he shook himself mentally. The sentiment that he was feeling was beyond him. And this was because he was all too aware of the sudden realization that he might not survive to return to 221B Baker Street. And he had no idea how to convey that emotion to Watson.

He wanted to call his friend back, to explain to him what was happening and to give him a proper goodbye. But now wasn't the time for that. And he wasn't the man for that. He could only pray that Watson would understand when they found the bodies.

* * *

The quiet of the morning was a ruse, a cloud to hide the anxiety of those that inhabited the city. The fog on the riverbanks was a better clue; the average passerby would have been able to sense the unease that trickled down the rotting sides of the abandoned vessels in the old shipyard.

Yorick certainly wouldn't have objected if that same average passerby had continued rapidly on his way. He couldn't shake the feeling that their location had been compromised after Moran had sent the letter to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't care what his employer said. It was an unnecessary risk for what appeared to be very little possible gain.

Moran continued to regale him with stories of how much of a threat Sherlock Holmes posed to their entire operation. He had puffed his chest out proudly as he told of how he had finished the job that Moriarty had begun at Reichenbach Falls. Somehow, he didn't seem to appreciate it when Yorick reminded him that Moran's assassination attempt hadn't been any more successful than his chief.

Yorick continued to pace back and forth in front of the entrance to their base. He had been doing so for the past hour at least, waiting apprehensively for the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

Even Yorick knew that Holmes wouldn't be able to resist such an invitation to confrontation. He'd had very little in the way of personal dealings with the detective but word got around when it came to the criminal classes. The only real question was what he would do once he arrived.

He glanced up as Moran came up behind him, his arms folded and his eyes narrow. "Any sign of him yet?"

Yorick shook his head. "Nothing yet, sir."

Moran exhaled slowly and seemed to bite the inside of his cheek. His rugged face betrayed his impatience.

"Is it possible that he will ignore the letter?" Yorick tentatively asked. "I mean, you gave no real reason why he should come to us. He might not see the point in coming to meet with us."

"No, Yorick. He will be here."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Holmes," said Moran evenly. "He knows as well as I do that a meeting between the two of us is long overdue."

"Do you think he knows that you intend to kill him?" Yorick could not feel the weight of those words on his chest.

"I'm sure that he does. And I'm sure that he will come up with some kind of counter attack, though little good it will do him."

"I hope that you know what you're doing," muttered Yorick. "I still say that this is an unnecessary risk."

"Your concerns have already been noted, Yorick, and I'll thank you to keep them to yourself from now on. I have no time for sentiment." Moran waved his hand carelessly in the air, examining a knife blade that he had removed from his belt.

"Sentiment?" Yorick couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Get below, Yorick. I'll need you to inform the professor in case something…unexpected happens."

"Unexpected," echoed Yorick. He shook his head. "Well, then you've got it, chief." He turned to head back into their base.

"Yorick,"

He turned at the sound of his name to see Moran looking dangerously at him. "Yes?"

"No matter what happens, don't interfere. Holmes is my kill. _My_ kill, do you understand?" Moran looked like he meant it too. His dark hair was standing up around his head like a mane and his blackened teeth stood out in contrast to his pale skin as he spoke. Yorick shivered.

"Oh I understand, chief." And he did. He understood all too well. Yorick was frankly looking forward to getting out of this situation. He had no desire to get between a dramatic confrontation between detective and criminal. It all sounded a bit too cliché for him.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson!"

Watson glanced up at the sound of his name to see that Inspector Lestrade was making his way across the overly crowded pub to join him at the counter. He offered a smile and a nod in return as the other man took a seat on the stool next to him. "Inspector,"

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be out and about?" Lestrade asked, good naturedly, signaling for the barman to bring him a drink.

"I think that I could say the same for you, inspector."

Lestrade chuckled. "A bit of a celebratory drink. Won't you join me?"

"Please," Watson gratefully accepted the glass that the bartender pushed his way. "What are we celebrating?"

"The conviction of our serial killer. The case against him was so strong that they've already set the date for his hanging." Lestrade took a long draught from his glass and set it down on the counter, smacking his lips with satisfaction.

"I'm so relieved that the killings are over," Watson said evenly, not quite as willing as the inspector to celebrate the death of this man, no matter how many people he had killed.

"Don't worry, doctor." Lestrade's voice had gone a bit softer and he nodded slowly. "I feel the same way as you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said grimly.

"Well you could have had me fooled for a moment there."

"I know," Lestrade sighed. "I keep trying to tell myself that it's a good thing that he won't be able to terrorize the population anymore. But if you get a good look at him, he seems to be so harmless. Not fully in control of his own actions."

"He did murder dozens of people for the sake of his own curiosity," Watson reminded him gently.

Lestrade shook his head. "That's just it. I can't wrap my brain around the fact that that seems to be the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it takes a truly diseased mind to do something like this. And this man just doesn't strike me as having the brains for this kind of experiment."

Watson frowned. "So you think that someone put him up to this?"

"I don't know what I think," admitted Lestrade. "All I know is that something is definitely wrong. Land committed those murders, we know that for sure. We caught him actually poisoning a well. But I just think that there's something more behind it all."

"Oh, I agree."

"What does Holmes think about all this?" asked Lestrade. "And how's he doing? I haven't heard from him at all in the last couple of days, which is pretty unusual for him."

"He's recovering steadily. His shoulder is giving him a great deal of grief, but that's to be expected," said Watson. "You don't just get up and walk away from an injury like that."

"Not that that would stop him from trying," Lestrade chuckled to himself. "How about you and I go and visit him after we've had our drink? I think that he would enjoy the company."

"I think that you're right, inspector. A visit from a friend might be just what he needs."

Lestrade took another draught from his glass and then glanced over at Watson, who had yet to touch his own drink. "How about we drink to the full recovery of our friend Sherlock Holmes instead?"

Watson smiled. "Yes. I do think that I will drink to that."


	11. Chapter 11

The house was dark as pitch when Holmes opened the unlocked door with a gentle push. He sucked his breath in softly as his eyes began to adjust and his mind clicked. The floorboards creaked ominously as he began to move through the house. Once or twice, he stumbled, his balance being thrown by the shoulder injury. As he reached out to catch himself against the wall, he became aware of the fact that the wallpaper hung down in ribbons.

Irony is a funny thing.

Holmes steadily made his way through the house, finally stopping in a large, square room lit only by a gas lamp on a rickety old table. This was the only piece of furniture in the room; the rest of it appeared to be empty.

He exhaled again, allowing himself to feel the pain in his shoulder. It had only increased since he had received the note from Moran, suggesting that it was more a product of his mind than anything else.

Holmes leaned against one wall, reaching a hand up to stroke the faded pattern that had once accented the room. How many years had it been since the paper had seen the light of a gas lamp or the soft conversation of happy occupants? He couldn't remember this house ever being occupied. It was a shame really, what with it being in such a lovely part of town and all.

People told stories about a ghost haunting this particular building. They said that it was the spirit of a father driven insane by the loss of his two children. The cause of the children's death had never been reported because he had supposedly hidden their bodies in the cellar of the house before the police could investigate. He had been arrested and convicted for their murder but the police had never found the children. People liked to say that one could hear his ghost shrieking if they went near the house at night. And every year on the night of his hanging, someone who had been seen to walk by the house on that day would disappear, never to be seen again.

Fanciful tales intended to scare the children, most people agreed. And Holmes was inclined to agree. It had never stopped him from moving into the flat opposite the house.

Even now, his blood refused to stiffen as a creak in the back room informed him that he was not alone. Because he was far more concerned about a living man, rather than a dead one.

He glanced over at the door as the creaking began to move closer. It was almost funny to consider, but he wasn't actually concerned about this meeting. Perhaps he should be, but he simply wasn't. He was rather in agreement with the letter: a meeting like this was "long overdue."

"Nice touch, this," he said softly. The creaking paused. "Camden House. The very place that I had you arrested the last time we met."

The creaking resumed and Holmes raised one eyebrow expectantly at the door.

"I thought that you might appreciate the significance, even if that doctor friend of yours won't."

And the speaker finally appeared, taking pride in his grand entrance. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled mustache. His face was horrifyingly gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. His ragged overcoat was tied tightly around a gaunt waist and his yellowing eyes peered out from under a shabby hat.

"Unemployment doesn't suit you, Colonel," Holmes remarked. "You've lost quite a bit of weight."

Colonel Moran gave a hollow laugh. "Well I can't say that your employment suits you any better. You look like a man brought back from the dead." His boots clacked against the floor, all caution abandoned in his step.

"I can't say that I was surprised to receive your letter." Holmes remarked.

"Weren't you? I would have thought that you had expected a letter from the professor himself." Moran chuckled at that. "Yes, he's alive. As well you know."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Come, come, Mr. Holmes. London's greatest detective didn't receive his title because of his talent with the violin. You must have known."

"I imagine that it is a particularly thrilling story," said Holmes dryly. "His dramatic escape and rescue."

"Quite," said Moran, shrugging. "But I would hate for the professor to be robbed of telling you that story himself. He does so love to be dramatic."

"Then he is quite different from the Professor Moriarty that I remember," said Holmes.

"He's changed quite a bit, yes." Moran allowed. "But then haven't we all. It's been a long time since the affair at Reichenbach Falls. The professor and I have had to remain underground for so long now just because everyone thinks that the both of us are dead."

"They think that Moriarty is dead," corrected Holmes. "Most people are still under the impression that you are languishing away in a Scotland Yard prison cell."

"Much to the shame of Scotland Yard."

"How did you manage to escape so neatly?" asked Holmes. "Even the inspectors at the Yard don't know that you are no longer an inmate."

"But you do," stated Moran. "Isn't it obvious?"

Holmes shook his head in amazement. "Won't you extend my greetings to Sergeant Billings the next time you deliver his payment?"

Moran chuckled. "It wasn't easy to strike a bargain with him. But, since I'm assumed to be in prison with a life sentence, I get so few visitors. I can get away with long periods of time away with no questions asked. And Billings was most agreeable when I got him to see the light."

"Very few people in this world can negotiate as strongly as you can when you are in a tight spot."

"You haven't asked me why I called you here," said Moran. "Or must I really assume that you know already?"

"Unfinished business." Holmes shrugged. "I was only glad that I managed to attract your attention at all."

"Did you really shoot yourself in the shoulder or did you manage to get our man to do it for you? How much of a coward are you?"

"Your man was most uncooperative."

Moran laughed, baring his yellow teeth. "You really are incorrigible, Mr. Holmes. But you are persistent, I'll give you that. I assume that you also know why I decided to call you here tonight."

"I'm quite certain that I do. Although it is really quite a shame."

"As much as I'd like to say that there is nothing personal about my wanting your death that would be a lie." Moran sighed. "I think that you are aware of the fact that I want your death to come about very badly, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll admit that that is not surprising," said Holmes.

"Over these past few years, I have thought of a thousand ways to kill you, my good man. And I'd count off the reasons why you deserve each and every one of those deaths but I would run the risk of boring you. And we certainly can't have that." Moran fished around inside his overcoat, smiling all the while. "And I have made a decision."

"Oh?"

"The biggest question that I have had to ask myself is this: how badly do I want your death? Will I grant you a merciful death, therefore getting away with my crime? Or will I cause you unimaginable agony, therefore running the risk of being convicted with your murder. And would being convicted with your murder be cause for shame or celebration?" Moran shook his head. "So you see, I've had a great deal to consider."

Holmes shrugged. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

Moran licked his lips and turned away. "Well, I do suppose that I have come to a decision." His laughter began as a low chuckle, morphing and growing in volume until echoed throughout the empty house. He finally turned back to the detective, clutching a small vial in one hand. "I shudder to think what your friend the doctor will do when he finds an unfortunate victim of suicide lying in the very house he resumed his career in."

Suicide…Holmes could feel the pain in his injured shoulder increasing at the suggestion. He kept his face carefully blank as he waited for the colonel to continue.

"Do you know what this is, Mr. Holmes?" Moran held out the vial expectantly. "It is a substance that, if I am not gravely mistaken, you are quite familiar with. Cocaine?"

"What makes you so certain that I plan to go along with this scheme of yours?" asked Holmes.

"Because I know you. I know that you will not risk putting a friend in harms way if you have the ability to stop it."

"No more of that, Moran," said Holmes, his tone suddenly taking on a coldness that was unmistakable. "Your schemes have already killed at least one of my friends. I have no intention of letting you harm another."

Moran stared at his for a long moment before his lips peeled away from his teeth in a mocking leer. "You think that I am thinking of your friend Dr. Watson. Aren't you."

Holmes remained silent.

"No, Mr. Holmes. Killing the good doctor would only hurt you. You will mourn but you will get over it. No, I had something much more…dramatic in mind."

"And what might that be?" Holmes had difficulty keeping the pain out of his voice. Because he understood what Moran meant.

"You do realize that I'm aware of the fact that you understand who my target is. The good doctor would never forgive you. Isn't it better that you allow me to kill you now rather than allowing the rage and grief of your friend to do it later?"

Holmes swallowed hard. "This is madness, Moran. I planned to speak to you, not to arrange a murder."

"Your own murder," said Moran. "Isn't it ironic how things can turn out?"

Moran produced the syringe from his pocket, fingering the weapon with a certain amount of glee. "Make your choice, Mr. Holmes. It's you or her. At least if I kill you, you still have a chance at life."

He hesitated for a split second. There was no lie in Moran's eyes, no bluff in his tone. He meant everything he said. But the split second was more than enough time for Moran to lunge.

Holmes felt the needle prick his injured arm and the pain increased tenfold as he tried to twist away, allowing the needle to draw blood as it was dragged through is skin. He gave a gasp at the unexpected strength of the dose, falling to his knees in horror. He could feel his heartbeat increasing and his vision seemed to slur. Holmes knew all too well what was coming next. And then the muscle spasms began and he fell to the floor, unable to control the movement. The pain in his gut hit him like a fist and he could feel the bile rising up in his throat to make an appearance on the wood floor.

His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, focusing just long enough to see the triumphant look on Moran's face.

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes."

And he wanted nothing more in the world than to lash back out at the man, to strike at him with his failing arms. But there was nothing he could do as Moran walked out of the room, out of the house, and onto the street below them.

_Watson was kneeling over the cliff at Reichenbach Falls, his head in his hands as he contemplated the death of his friend. Holmes tried to reach out to him from his position in the bushes but his feet seemed unable to move._

_He tried to cry out but his voice failed him. All he could do was watch._

" _Holmes."_

_And then his feet were moving, moving so quickly that he couldn't stop them. He was kneeling on the ground next to Watson, his hand on his friend's shoulder. He tried to speak comfortingly but somehow he knew that Watson couldn't hear him. He cast one glance down at the waterfall below. One glance too many._

_The body on the rocks below was unmistakable. The angle of the bloodied face, the long, bony fingers that reached out to the gun that lay on the rocks._

_Suicide._

* * *

"Holmes," Watson called, knocking repeatedly on the door of his friend. He paused for a moment, listening intently before glancing over his shoulder at Lestrade and shrugging.

"Do you suppose that he's all right?" asked Lestrade.

"He was fine when I left this morning," said Watson, trying the locked doorknob. "That was only a few hours ago. Surely he can't have gone that far downhill. Holmes!"

There was still no answer from inside. Lestrade and Watson exchanged a tentative look.

"Perhaps we should try to break the door down," suggested Lestrade. "That seems to be the only option if he doesn't answer. He could be in trouble."

"You're right," said Watson. "Will you help me?"

Together, the two men began to throw themselves against the door, once, twice, and on the third try, it opened. They staggered slightly inside, not quite having regained their balance before looking around at the room. Something was definitely off here.

The bed was empty, the closets thrown open with clothing tossed everywhere. Books were scattered on the floor and his desk was littered with so much clutter that they could no longer see the wood below. Granted, Holmes wasn't exactly the tidiest of fellows but this was appalling, even by his standards.

"Is this how you left the room this morning?" asked Lestrade.

"I didn't come in this morning. But this isn't how he keeps it on a regular basis. Not his desk."

"Watson, something must have happened. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" Lestrade examined the clutter on the desk with an investigator's eye.

Watson bit his lip, trying desperately to remember. "He received a letter this morning that he didn't want me to see. He didn't open it at the breakfast table, just stuck it in his dressing gown pocket."

"Is it still there?"

"It's possible. It's a start, anyway," said Watson.

* * *

The muscle spasms were only growing increasingly worse. It was as though he was paralyzed with uncontrollable motion. His shoulder wound had reopened with the almost constant thrashing, leaking red onto the floor so that he was rolling around in a sickening pool of his own blood.

His jaw was clenched tightly against the pain but a soft moan of pain escaped. His mind was failing him as he tried to reason his way out. And this showed no sign of improvement.

_Mary Watson's body racked with sobs as he approached the coffin. He could see her draped over her husband's body, tears of an immeasurable grief streaming down her beautiful features. The bullet in his temple was unmistakable and Holmes gave a cry of astonishment._

_The cry alerted Mary of his presence and she whirled around to face him, her tear streaked face contorting in an expression of pure rage. "How could you?"_

* * *

"Got it." Lestrade held up the letter that he had found on the desk.

"That's wonderful, Lestrade." Watson scanned the parchment for a moment, sucking in his breath as he realized where his friend was. "That's incredible."

"What is?"

"He is directly across the street from us in Camden House." Watson looked up at the inspector and shook his head in amazement.

"I can have my men there in a matter of minutes," said Lestrade. "Let me just use your phone."

"No, Lestrade," Watson stopped his friend from leaving the room. Lestrade stared. "I think that it would be better if you and I went alone."

"But Holmes is in there with a madman and a severe shoulder injury. Wouldn't it be better to at least have some backup?"

"I'd rather that we did this ourselves, Lestrade."

"You're right," said Lestrade after a moment. "Let's go."


	12. Chapter 12

Watson could tell that something was terribly wrong the moment that he entered the rundown Camden House. There was something in the air that betrayed the evil that seeped through the cracks in the dilapidated walls and up through the decrepit floorboards. It appeared to sing in the air, dancing and laughing in his face, as if to tell him that he was too late.

_Not bloody likely._

He could tell that Lestrade could feel it as well. The muscles in the inspector's arms began to tighten and his face grew hard.

Neither man dared to speak, so thick was the atmosphere. They moved silently through the house, not wanting to alert the wrong party of their presence. It was certainly not their intention to make the situation any worse for Holmes. But the house appeared to be empty. Too empty.

Lestrade glanced over at him, stopping in his tracks at the end of the hall. Watson could only shrug.

Turning back, Lestrade put one hand up to silence the words that Watson wasn't even planning to utter. Both men stood in complete silence, listening very carefully. Yes. There was a certain… beat coming from one of the side rooms. They exchanged a glance before carefully twisting the doorknob of the room in question.

The room was dark but for a single gas lamp that stood on a table. The oil was beginning to run low, as signified by the fact that the tone of the room was growing steadily dimmer. Aside from that bit of furniture, the room appeared to be empty.

"Do you suppose we heard wrong?" asked Lestrade in a somewhat hoarse whisper.

But a sudden groan of pain alerted them to the fact that this was certainly not the case. Instantly, both men had their eyes trained on the room, trying to find the source of the pain. It was not difficult.

Once their eyes had adjusted to the faintness of the light, they could make out the form of a body lying on the floor. Watson sucked in his breath sharply. In a single movement, both men were at his side, pulling him onto his back in order to get a better look at him. And Sherlock Holmes looked bad.

"Lestrade," Watson spoke through gritted teeth. "Find him."

Lestrade did not require any further clarification. A seasoned officer, he was on his feet in an instant and gone from the room. He had the nose of a police dog when it came to tracking down the criminals and Watson had every faith in his ability to find the attacker.

One look at Holmes conveyed the seriousness of the situation; it was clear that they must get him out of here as soon as they possibly could. Violent muscle spasms were jarring the arms that had once seemed so strong proficient. His breath appeared to be coming in short, thick gasps as his pulse seemed very capable of jumping through his skin to spill forth in the form of red anguish.

"Holmes." Watson was surprised at the pain in his choked voice. He swallowed hard, trying to banish the distress. His voice turned carefully soothing as he took a deep breath, trying to pull oxygen into seizing lungs. "Holmes, it's all right."

His efforts were rewarded with another groan of agony; Holmes' teeth were tightly clenched, his eyes screwed tightly shut against the pain.

Lestrade was at his side now, pursing his lips at the sight of the detective.

"Well?"

"I wasn't able to catch him," said Lestrade grimly. "But I have my men on his trail. It won't be long. How is he?"

"It's not good," said Watson. "We need to get him out of here and quickly. Can you help me carry him?"

Neither man felt the need to wait until Lestrade answered the purely rhetorical question. Gently, strong hands grasped Holmes' broken body, lifting him into waiting arms. They began to walk slowly so as not to jar the man and increase the pain.

Watson could only hope that they had arrived in time.

* * *

Colonel Sebastian Moran watched as a shade in the gloom. He did not fear detection, for the hunter does not fear the attention of the tiger that he seeks. The ability to remain hidden in plain sight was something that the seasoned hunter had perfected. A leer crept over his weathered features as he watched the men carrying Holmes from the room.

The broken Holmes. The beaten Holmes. Brought to his knees by the very drug that held him in an iron grip. Brought to a new low by the man he had once defeated. What a delicious paradox.

Police detectives did not concern him, nor did the threat of officers combing Baker Street for him. There was no reason to believe that they would find him.

He had won this round. That much was for certain; even Holmes would agree to that. But now he was forced to consider his next move. For he had accomplished precisely what he had set out to do. Holmes would be incapacitated for a long time, recovering from the violent cocaine overdose mixed with just enough snake venom to keep him weak as a newborn babe.

Moran rubbed his hands together silently as the men vanished from the house into 221B Baker Street. If life were a game of chess, he was so close to victory that he could almost taste it.

Check.

* * *

Lestrade sat outside the bedroom, his hands wringing with anticipation. Watson had disappeared into the room with the unconscious Holmes nearly an hour before. Every once in a while, he'd give a shout and Mrs. Hudson would appear. He would request something and she would be on it like a shot. Then…nothing. They'd be forced to wait yet again.

He glanced up as Mrs. Hudson hurried past him with a bucket of fresh water. She handed it to Watson through the doorway and Lestrade got a brief glance of the doctor's pale, sweaty face. He swallowed hard.

Mrs. Hudson leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath as the door closed behind her. She looked over at Lestrade and they could only shake their heads in unison.

His men had not been able to locate Colonel Moran but that was hardly surprising. No matter what he had told Watson, he knew that it would be impossible to find the tiger hunter without Moran's articulate permission.

The fact that Moran seemed to be getting away with a blatant murder attempt was difficult enough to swallow. But Lestrade couldn't shake the painful truth that Holmes had not mentioned the confrontation to anyone. If they hadn't been able to find Holmes in time, he would have died on the floor of Camden House. The man's ego was not only bloody irritating but it had nearly cost him his life. What a cost.

"Has there been any change, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, surprised at how croaky his voice now sounded. He coughed into his shoulder, shaking himself mentally.

She ran a hand through the hair that was escaping from her bun, her eyes exhausted and troubled. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "All I know is that the doctor has been trying to keep his fever under control. And it's not been easy."

"Was it definitely a cocaine overdose?" Lestrade, though not a medical man, had been in the police force long enough to recognize the symptoms of an acute drug poisoning, particularly something as common as cocaine.

"It seems so," said Mrs. Hudson. Her lower lip appeared to tremble, just a bit and she swallowed hard. Her eyes betrayed just how worried she was. "I was so afraid that his filthy habit would prove to be the death of him. I just hope that I'm not going to be proved right."

Lestrade reached an arm out to awkwardly pat her on the arm; he'd never been very good at this kind of thing. Comforting women was something that had always been beyond him.

She looked up at him and gave him a watery smile. "Thank you, Inspector."

He nodded slowly, offering a feeble smile in return. "You're welcome, Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson!" The door opened to reveal Watson's drained face. "I need you to go into my desk in the front room and retrieve a small, brown box."

"On my way, doctor."

Lestrade leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath as she disappeared around the corner. There was nothing more to do but to wait and to pray. That was not a particularly uplifting prospect.

* * *

_He appeared to be floating over the land. Squinting, he became aware of the fact that the view below him was familiar. But it also seemed obscure and confusing, as though he was seeing it in a dream. Somehow, he knew that this was Reichenbach Falls._

_Dreaming in the air above the waterfall, he suddenly found himself standing on the edge of the cliff, looking down at a thundering waterfall. The details in his vision were wiped clean, so that the water appeared to be flowing down a grey blur. Nothing appeared to be real, not even the solid ground beneath his feet. He blinked, shaking his head, trying to make some sense out of the sight. It was not working._

" _Sherlock Holmes."_

_He looked up at the sound of his name, peering through the smoke that covered the ground to find the speaker. But there was nothing there._

" _Sherlock Holmes."_

_This time, his eyes showed him a shadow. It appeared to be a man, but he was completely featureless. There was no face, no skin, nothing to betray the fact that it might be a real person. But, to complete the illusion, Holmes knew the identity of the shadow._

" _Moran." His answer was short and to the point but he knew that the tiger hunter would understand._

" _Sherlock Holmes."_

_A second shadow appeared next to the first, this one a bit shorter and hunched. But he remained as featureless as his companion._

" _Moriarty." But this time, he was not quite as certain that he had identified the shadow correctly. He shook his head, both physically and mentally, trying to get a better look at the shadow._

_A face suddenly appeared and Holmes felt his breath turn to ice in his lungs. "Watson."_

_The face of John Watson looked blankly towards him, not seeing him._

" _Watson, are you all right? What's happening?" The fear in his own voice surprised him._

_Watson did not answer. He merely raised a hand and pointed at Holmes. His eyes looked through the man he was pointing at and his cheeks turned up in something resembling a smile. But it was not a smile. Nor was it a leer. It was something completely without emotion that was twisting his face, this way and that. It was something inside of him that appeared to be controlling him._

" _Watson."_

" _Sherlock Holmes." The finger appeared to glow with an unearthly light. "Sherlock Holmes."_

_He suddenly felt the pain erupting in his chest as the glow from the finger appeared to transform into a beam of light that struck him with enough force to lift him off of his feet. And he was floating in agony, feeling the pain in his chest grow ever larger._

_And Watson began to laugh._

"Holmes."

_The words were Watson's and they went with his voice. But they were not spoken by the Watson in front of him._

"Holmes."

_The voice was more urgent now. He closed his eyes against it, feeling that somehow it had an evil intention._

"For God's sake, Holmes, if you can hear me, you must open your eyes."

Slowly, against his better judgment, Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. He squinted in what appeared to be a bright light; he could still see the beam of light that Watson had shot into his chest. But no.

His eyes began to adjust to the light of the room. As they did so, they began to focus on a face. After a moment, the face registered in his memory banks and he relaxed his aching muscles.

"Watson," he whispered. It was all he could manage, but it was enough.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

That simple phrase had become a mantra; Watson had to repeat it to himself over and over again to remind himself of the fact that this was true.

An hour ago, it had seemed that the detective would not survive. The effects of the poison were too great and his body, weakened by the gunshot wound, was failing. The best efforts of the doctor had seemed to be futile. And Watson had begun to lose hope.

Despair. It was a feeling that he was unfamiliar with.

Being an army doctor, Watson was more accustomed than most to death. He had seen more casualties than he cared to recall. He had experienced his fair share of failure, for no doctor can save everyone. Some patients are simply too far gone. But he had never experienced anything quite as personal as this, not even when he had knelt next to the sickbed of Davey Wiggins.

The fact that it was such a personal matter made wait that much more painful. Pain was something that he was used to dealing with. But it was not pain that kept him bound to the bed. It was more than pain. It was agony.

Before Sherlock Holmes had opened his eyes, he had been almost certain that this was the end. Anguish had morphed into despair.

And then…it was as though Holmes had somehow sensed the pain of his brother. He had opened his eyes, managed to whisper a single word before falling back into the pillow.

Tears of joy began to well in his eyes.

Watson allowed the tears to fall.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had to admit that he wasn't exactly surprised when Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade from Scotland Yard had rung him with news of his brother's latest escapade. Concerned, certainly. But surprised…no.

It wasn't that unusual for his brother to get himself into a situation involving bodily harm. What with the epidemic that had been ravaging London, he'd known that it would only be a matter of time before he received a call. News of the gunshot wound had startled him because it was an unexpected development; he would have expected to hear that Sherlock had contracted cholera while investigating, not get himself shot in the shoulder. But then he had managed to get himself into a worse state.

As he rode in the back of the hansom on his way to 221B Baker Street, he couldn't help but wonder what had happened this time. Inspector Lestrade had sounded quite urgent on the phone and he had responded. Sherlock was his younger brother, the only member of the Holmes family that he still remained in contact with. For all the fact that they didn't get along particularly well, they still cared for one another as only a brother can.

_At least he has Dr. Watson looking after him._

Confirmation that Dr. Watson had proved himself to be an even more competent physician than anyone had ever thought was pleasing to Mycroft. He knew that his brother couldn't be in better hands.

* * *

Watson glanced up from his position next to the bed when the door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes. He quickly got to his feet, extending his hand to the older Holmes brother. Mycroft shook it rather distractedly as his eyes traveled to the sleeping form lying on the sheets.

"Is he all right, Dr. Watson?"

"I think that he'll be just fine, Mr. Holmes," said Watson, exhaling heavily as he spoke. "Your brother gave us quite a turn."

Mycroft nodded briefly, suggesting that he had tuned out the doctor's words after being reassured that his brother would live. He sank down in the chair that Watson had previously occupied and took Holmes's hand in his own. Holmes appeared to stir in his sleep, opening his eyes briefly enough to register Mycroft's face. A small smile appeared on the younger brother's face before exhaustion overtook him and his eyes closed again. Mycroft looked over to Watson for an explanation.

"The best thing that we can do for him now is to allow him to rest," said Watson. "He's been through a great deal in the past few hours." He paused, looking from the unconscious form in the bed to the man holding his hand. "Would you like some time alone with him?"

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft. His tone divulged just how thankful he really was. "Thank you for all of your help."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," said Watson softly. "Your brother is my brother as well."

* * *

Mary Watson slid her knife through the peapod with a satisfyingly smooth movement, tipping the peas inside into the ceramic bowl that waited on the tabletop. She sat back in the straight backed chair and shook the hair that was escaping from her bun out of her face.

"It's so good of you to help me, Mrs. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson, stirring a steaming pot of broth. "What with everything that's been going on, I don't think that I would have been able to manage alone."

"It's my pleasure, Mrs. Hudson," said Mary, reaching for another peapod. "You've been through a great deal." Her knife slit through the pod with a flashing motion. "Is it true that Mr. Holmes appears to be recovering?"

"Aye, it's true," said Mrs. Hudson. "It was very uncertain for a long time but your husband believes that he will make a full recovery."

Mary exhaled, tipping the peas into the bowl. "I'm very glad. I know how worried John was."

"Your husband deserves a great deal of thanks for all he's done for Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson with conviction. She lifted the spoon to her lips, tasting the broth. "He gave us quite a scare."

"So I've heard," said Mary with a small smile.

Mrs. Hudson frowned at the broth before reaching for a salt shaker. "I could scarcely believe my eyes when the good doctor and the inspector carried him back. All I could think was that he'd gotten into some kind of mischief again. And I was right."

"Agh," Mary grimaced as the knife slid through the peapod and into her thumb. She dropped the knife onto the worn tabletop, thrusting her bleeding thumb into her mouth.

"Are you all right, Mary?"

She looked up to see John in the doorway. The simple fact that he looked a great deal less worn than he had the past few days brought joy to her heart. Mr. Holmes regaining his senses had done him wonders. "Yes, John, I'm all right."

He gently took her thumb in his strong hands, examining the edges of ragged flesh with a practiced eye. "It's not too deep. I'll patch it up for you, darling." John softly pressed the tip of her thumb to his mouth and kissed it.

"Thank you, John, but there's really no need to. I'm fine."

"Doctor's orders, Mary." His eyes appeared to playfully scold her. "I'll get my bag."

Mary watched him leave, a smile creeping over her features as she inserted the injured thumb between her teeth once more.

"That's a fine husband you have there, Mrs. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson, a slight glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "I've always thought so. You be sure to keep him close."

Mary's smile grew. "You're right, Mrs. Hudson. You're absolutely right."

* * *

Over the next week, Watson was able to breathe a little easier as Holmes appeared to be on the road to recovery. There had been no need for chiding words, no need to scold the detective for going on such a dangerous mission on his own; both men understood why he had done it. Naturally, Watson felt it difficult to accept that Holmes hadn't consulted him about the meeting beforehand. But years of living with the detective had taught him that Sherlock Holmes does nothing without a reason.

A few days after the incident, Holmes was able to venture out of the bedroom for the first time; the effects of the drug combined with the pain in his injured shoulder had made it nearly impossible to do so before.

Watson wasn't able to hide the fact that he was pleased to see such a leap of progress. Holmes was exhibiting a particularly nonchalant view of the fact that he had gotten out of bed and scorned the fact that Watson was showing such relief.

"I'm all right, Watson," he said firmly as Watson helped him into the chair. "I'm not completely helpless."

"You certainly could have fooled me, Holmes," said Watson, pushing the chair in. "I wouldn't have thought a man in your position would be able to reject such help."

Holmes scowled and Watson couldn't hold back a laugh. "I'm not an invalid."

Watson shook his head, swallowing the laughter that he knew was irritating his friend. "I'm just so relieved to see you all right, Holmes."

Holmes accepted a single hotcake from the tray that Watson held out. He placed it on his plate, gingerly applying a miniscule amount of butter.

"I see that your appetite is back to normal."

"Certainly, Watson. Would you have expected any less from me?"

Watson set the platter down and shook his head. "Of course not, Holmes."

They ate in silence for a long while, both men seemingly engrossed in the newspapers that littered the table. The normalcy that had been steadily returning to 221B Baker Street was enough. Neither man felt a particular urge to speak until Watson came across a startling article in the newspaper.

"I say, Holmes, have you seen this?" He turned the paper around so that Holmes could get a glimpse of the page.

Holmes squinted and read the headline aloud: "True Culprit Behind London Epidemic Apprehended." He looked up at Watson. "And who do they claim is the true culprit they speak of?"

Watson folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. 'I haven't the foggiest idea. Someone named Rupert Bleibner."

Holmes sat back in his chair and chuckled to himself. "It's certainly good to see that the newspaper reporters of London are back in top notch form. What do they say is the motive behind the killing?"

"They say that is was the work of a madman and that Bleibner's capture proves it."

The detective continued to chuckle.

"Do you think it's possible that they will ever trace the murders back to Moran and Moriarty?" asked Watson, scooping up a bite of eggs from his plate.

"Even if Scotland Yard manages to, I doubt that the press will get hold of any details. Newspaper reporters aren't particularly well known for their accuracy."

Watson frowned down at the folded paper. "You may be right but I can't help but be concerned."

"Why is that, Watson?"

"Well, after the…incident, Moran got off scot free. Scotland Yard hasn't been able to find him, despite their best efforts."

Holmes set down his fork, glad for an excuse to stop eating, and laced his fingers. "What is your point?"

"Simply that I don't like the idea that he's wandering around London."

"He's been wandering about London for years now, Watson," Holmes reminded him. "Nothing has changed."

"But the fact that he attacked you and got away with it is bound to increase his self confidence and he's likely to try again." Watson crossed his arms.

"Watson, you do not know the colonel in the same manner that I do." Holmes sighed. "It's simply not in his character to make a second strike so close to the first."

"How can you be certain?"

"I am not certain," said Holmes crossly. He lifted his fork again and pointedly inserted it between his teeth to show Watson that he was not interested. "But I think that we have other, more important things to worry about."

"Such as?" Watson could feel his temper beginning to rise.

Holmes allowed his face to soften and he offered a slow nod in Watson's general direction. "I daresay that you and your wife will be returning home soon now that I am nearly recovered."

Watson and Mary had been staying at 221B Baker Street for the past week so that Watson could keep an eye on Holmes. They had been staying in Watson's old room; it was a bit cramped but Mary had never complained. She knew how much it meant to Watson to be able to care for Holmes himself instead of moving him to a hospital. But it certainly wasn't a permanent solution. They all had real lives to return to.

"Are you so certain that you've recovered enough for us to take our leave?" asked Watson with a small smile.

Holmes smiled. "I certainly hope so, Watson. I expect that Mrs. Watson grows weary of her existence in our flat. She's a lovely woman but a bachelor's residence will never be her idea of a home." He paused for a moment before exhaling. "I am greatly indebted to you both. I trust that you'll tell her so?"

"Why not tell her yourself, Holmes?"

"I don't think that would be advisable." Holmes cleared his throat and put forward a sheepish smile. "You know how I am around women."

"Certainly, I shall inform her, Holmes." Watson shook his head, the grin splitting over his face. The men began to laugh.


	14. Chapter 14

It's never easy to adjust to everyday life after a great tragedy has occurred. Everything feels hollow and useless; nothing will ever be the same again. Even the dull sunlight appears wan and unresponsive. The days are endless and grey. The nights are long and painful, for you have nothing to distract you from the memories. You don't see how you can go on.

London had been devastated in less than two weeks. Death and destruction had run uncurbed throughout the streets and the body count had reached nearly a hundred and fifty people. Residents no longer appeared on the streets; they remained huddled in their homes with their loved ones, praying that they would not contract the disease. The streets were silent and cold with their absence. Even the rats and pigeons had vanished seemingly overnight. The situation had seemed dire, even hopeless. The city had begun to lose heart.

And yet, where this is desolation, there is, by necessity, convalescence. Time has proven itself to be the best therapy for damage done to the mind.

The madman had been apprehended. The spreading of the dreaded disease stopped. And, mercifully, the deaths ceased.

Slowly, the city began to recover. People cautiously trickled onto the streets again. Their voices sounded on streets that had been hushed for so long, faintly at first.

Mothers gathered their children close and kissed their faces while fathers took them on their knees and rumpled their hair fondly. Husbands and wives fell into each others arms and the betrothed rejoiced with their loved one. And they all offered prayers and songs of thanksgiving. Death had thrown everything at them and yet it had not triumphed. They were alive.

Their voices grew in confidence and London came alive with the sound of people. They were people who had reason to talk and to laugh and to sing with the joy that came from simply being alive. Sounds of children dancing and smiling in the streets mingled with the resonance of their elders, their parents no longer too frightened to let them out of the house.

They would never forget the fortnight of terror, as it became known. Countless citizens read their morning papers with a feeling of grim fulfillment as the hanging of the Broad Street executioner (as he became known) was announced. With his death, they could finally allow aching muscles that had been clenched with worry to relax.

The city was healing.

If they had read a little further down the page, they would have discovered that healing was entirely thanks to a man named Sherlock Holmes.

But, alas, they did not. They simply clapped their hands together and proclaimed what a relief it was that the dreadful business was over. Each person took his paper and threw it in his hearth, eager to put the business behind him.

And that suited Sherlock Holmes perfectly.

* * *

"Watch out, Sadie!" 8 year old Jeremy Lestrade called to his sister. "My train's comin' through!"

6 year old Sadie Lestrade clutched her doll tightly to her chest and made a face at him. "Be careful, Jemmy!" she scolded. "You'll hurt Lissie."

"Well, she needs to stay off the track! My train's got a busy schedule!" Jemmy crouched down next to his train track and adjusted the wheels of one of the cars so that it could run more smoothly.

Sadie smoothed her doll's pink dress and smiled down at her golden, yarn hair and her button eyes. The red mouth had been stitched onto the face many years ago and the color was beginning to fade. She must remember to ask Mummy for some new thread in order to repair it.

Jemmy pushed the train along the track, imitating the sound of the wheels and the horn. He paused at a stack of blocks that served as the station and looked up expectantly at his sister. "Can I take Lissie for a ride on my train?"

Sadie looked down at her doll uncertainly. "Will you be careful with her?"

"Of course I will, Sadie!" Jemmy sat back on his heels and held his arms out.

"Promise?" Sadie looked doubtfully at him.

"Promise."

Sadie carefully lowered her doll into an empty car and nodded at Jemmy, who immediately began to race the train around the track. "Be careful!" she cried, instantly regretting her decision to allow him to give Lissie a ride.

"I am being careful!" Jemmy crawled, or rather flailed, around the track, moving the train faster and faster.

"Jemmy!" Sadie covered her face in dismay as the train reached top speed and the back cars were flung off of the track and onto the wood floor. They had landed too close to the fireplace for comfort. She ran over as fast as her tiny legs would carry her and rescued Lissie from the edge of the hearth.

Jemmy kicked at the track in annoyance; he had expected his train to be able to go faster than that. "What was that?"

Sadie made a face at her brother, carefully smoothing her doll's skirts and hair. Luckily, she seemed to be all right.

"What's going on in here?"

Both children looked up at the sound of the voice to see a man standing in the doorway. "Daddy!"

The children rushed over to their father, who spread his arms out wide to receive them. He hugged them closely and laughed as they hurriedly began to tell him of what had happened with the train cars.

"Did you see how fast they were going, Daddy?" Jemmy cried. "It must have been a hundred!"

But before Lestrade could ask his son to clarify, Sadie began to chime in. "He promised that he would take care of Lissie, Daddy! And he almost threw her into the fire!"

"Slow down there!" Lestrade chuckled and rumpled Jemmy's hair. "Everything's all right now!"

Annie Lestrade appeared behind her husband and smiled down at him. Her cheeks were red and shining in the firelight and her dark eyes sparkled as she pushed her blonde hair from her forehead. "Hello darling."

Lestrade got to his feet, gently prying Jemmy's fingers from around his waist, and bent down to kiss his wife. "How are you, my love?"

She allowed him to take her into his arms and she sighed with pleasure. Her short, slim figure melted into his tall one and she smiled up at him. "I'm so glad to have you home."

"I'm glad to be home as well." He playfully tossed his hat down to Jemmy, who grabbed at it with enthusiasm and clapped it onto his head. The children scrambled down onto the floor again, contented with their parent's presence and their interest was now aimed towards their playthings. "How have the children been?"

"Oh, they've been good as gold," said Annie, leading him from the dining room where they stood into the kitchen. "They've missed you."

"And I've missed them." Lestrade rued the fact that he had been arriving home from the office very late every night. The children were almost always in bed when he had finally come home. It had been a sadly necessary aspect of his position for the past two weeks and he had hated every second of it. Thankfully, Annie had been waiting for him every night, faithful to the last. "And how are you?"

Annie offered him a brief kiss before turning to set the kettle onto the stove. "I've missed you too. Will you be home early now that the murder business is cleared up?"

"I certainly hope so." Lestrade pulled his coat off and hung it on a hook near to the fire. "You know that I hated leaving you alone with the children for so long."

"I understood that it was necessary," said Annie mildly. "If it meant the capture of a killer like that man, I supposed that I could spare you for a few days. I just hadn't been anticipating it to take that long."

"No one did," said Lestrade, settling himself into one of the straight backed chairs that ringed around the kitchen table. "It shocked everyone."

"Tea?" asked Annie, pulling a pair of cups down from the cupboard and setting them on the dark, smooth countertop.

"Mmm."

Annie leaned back against the lower cupboards as she waited for the kettle to boil. "And how is Mr. Holmes faring?" Lestrade had kept her updated on the detective's condition, knowing how concerned she had been.

"Much better," said Lestrade with an air of genuine relief. "Dr. Watson deemed him well enough to take care of himself for a time."

"Have the doctor and his wife moved back home?"

"Yes," said Lestrade. "I can't tell you how relieved we were to hear that. We knew that he would only leave when Holmes was well again."

"I expect that Mary Watson was happy to be home," said Annie, glancing over her shoulder at the stubbornly un-heated kettle.

"I expect she was. But she's a good soul."

"Aye, that she is." Annie smiled down at her apron strings for a moment. Then she looked up at her husband and her face was troubled.

"What's the matter, dearest?" Lestrade got to his feet and moved over to hold her in his strong arms. "Are you all right?"

Annie swallowed, nodding.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked with concern evident in his voice. "What's wrong?"

"I just can't stop thinking about it. The deaths." Annie bit her lip, grateful for the solidness of her husband's arms. "All those people. And for what?" She looked up at him and he could see tears in her eyes. "Why did they die, Geoffrey?"

Lestrade pulled her closer. "I know, my darling. He was a madman. And we can't always understand their intents."

"But there must be more to it than that. More than what you're telling the public. He couldn't have been all mad," said Annie, nestling her head against his chest. "It takes some brains at least to concoct a plot like that. It couldn't have been the random work of a madman. What aren't you telling me?"

There was a long pause as Lestrade struggled to find the words that he so desperately needed. The truth was that he had no idea how to tell her. The concept of a sponsored serial killer was terrifying. But, according to Holmes, that was what had happened. The man known as Moriarty had sponsored Land to infect London. But, as of that moment in time, no one had any idea _why_ this was the case.

"We don't know," he said finally, trying to put as much truth into his statement as he could without frightening his wife. "All we know was that he wasn't in this alone. And that he didn't plan anything. He was merely a puppet."

Annie exhaled slowly. "A puppet?"

"That's right."

"Are you absolutely sure?" she asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Of course we are." Lestrade looked down at her curiously and tipped her chin up so that he could look at her lovely face. "Why are you asking that?"

"Because whoever employed that puppet is still out there," she answered and the tears had gone from her eyes. They were replaced with fear. "And that means that he could strike again at any time."

"We haven't given up," he soothed. "If he's still in London, we'll find him."

"I only hope that you can, Geoff," she whispered, breaking away from him as the kettle began to sing. "I only hope that you can."

* * *

Dr. John Watson knocked several times on the door of 221B Baker Street and leaned back onto his heels, waiting patiently for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door.

It was remarkable to note the changes that had occurred in the city. Streets that had once been grey and lifeless were now full of sunshine and laughter. Children ran up and down the streets, and their parents could watch without fear. It was as though the city itself had given a great sigh of relief and allowed to joy to penetrate the terror.

He found that it was well nigh impossible to look upon the changed streets without a smile appearing over his features. Joy was truly contagious.

The door to the flat opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She was greatly changed as well, her face rosy and happy and her body language a great deal more relaxed than he had recently seen it. It was almost as though they had been squeezed by an invisible hand and then let go in order that they may experience true freedom.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said, turning his smile upon her. "You're looking very well."

"Oh, good morning, Dr. Watson." She held her arms out and he gratefully entered her embrace. "It's so good to see you again."

"Is Mr. Holmes in?" he asked.

"Yes, please come in." She closed the door behind him and motioned for him to follow her to the sitting room. "He'll be so glad to see you. Now that he doesn't have anything to distract him, he'd complaining something awful about being bored all of the time. One would think that he would be relieved that this awful business is over."

"Not Mr. Holmes," laughed Watson. "You know that he is never satisfied without a case."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head but she couldn't conceal the smile that was growing on her face. "I suppose that you're right." She opened the door to reveal Holmes sitting relaxed in his easy chair, the picture of how he had seen him at the beginning of this case. It was amusing to consider just how much and how little had changed.

"Come in, Watson!" Holmes twisted his neck in order to get a better glimpse of his old friend. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Not to another social visit?"

"I'm afraid so," said Watson good naturedly, dropping down into his own chair. "No murders walking in my footsteps this time, I hope."

"How dreadfully dull of you," Holmes lit his pipe and Watson could see the slight twinkle in his eyes before the smoke obscured them almost entirely. "I was rather hoping for something a bit more stimulating."

Watson chuckled. "How's the shoulder?"

"On the mend." Holmes shrugged. "It doesn't bother me at all these days. I told you that it was simply a surface wound."

"Is that so?" Watson feigned mockery. "I was rather doubtful of that fact when I found you lying almost dead across the road."

"Mere acting on my part," dismissed Holmes with a wave of his hand. "I knew that the colonel had to be in the vicinity and it was absolutely necessary for me to put him off of his guard."

"I see," said Watson with a shake of his head. "Does this mean that the entire case has been cleared up?"

"The entire case?" echoed Holmes. "My dear Watson, I'm afraid not. We have merely cleared up a fraction. The more public fraction to be precise."

"Then why on earth are you sitting here and complaining that you are bored?"

"I have no reason to continue to pursue a worthless case." Holmes leaned his head back and puffed a smoke ring towards the ceiling.

"Worthless?" Watson raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, worthless. The rest of this business is between myself, Colonel Moran and Professor Moriarty. I have solved this little puzzle that they have put before me. And now, I shall leave the next move to them."

"Even if it means taking another life?"

"I should hardly think that they would try something so drastic," said Holmes dryly. "But, yes. If you like. I shall wait until they…create a bang."

Watson crossed his arms. "Really, Holmes."

"I expect that Lestrade has been taxing you for details of the case as well?" Holmes effectively dodged the comment.

"He wants to know what the motive for poisoning London was."

"As far as Lestrade is concerned, he did so to gain one thing." Holmes shrugged.

"And what would that be?" asked Watson, not particularly keen to hear the answer.

"My attention. And he has received it." Holmes sighed. "It's been quite the experience, hasn't it? Now. Enough of this. I must insist that you stay for tea. Mrs. Hudson is no doubt preparing a meal for you as we speak. Tonight, you are my guest. We shall dine together."

Watson smiled. "I shall telephone Mary."

* * *

"So you see, sir, there's nothing more that we can do about Mr. Holmes," said Yorick carefully. "We've done everything we can."

Yorick swallowed hard as he tried not to stare into the shadows at the man to whom he was speaking. He stood in what seemed to be a fine sitting room. Or it would have been if he would have been able to actually see where he was. The room was not lit; in fact, the only light came from what little sunlight was able to penetrate the closed curtains. It wasn't much. The darkness threatened to swallow him up; he hated the feeling of not knowing what was coming.

The sound of someone striking a match sounded and a bony hand lifted a pipe close to the flame that flickered into existence. But it did not light the pipe. The hand brought the match close to the face and the black eyes examined the flame with an air of boredom.

"Sir?" asked Yorick uncertainly.

The pipe was lit and the match discarded. A sigh.

"You've disappointed me, Yorick." A bottomless, clear voice. "I expected more from you."

"But sir -"

"I don't want excuses. Holmes knows and that was the one thing I expected you to keep silent."

"But I had no way of stopping him!"

Another sigh. A hand appeared to wave dismissively towards the tiny pockets of light emitted by the lit pipe.

A click.

"You are disposable, Yorick. Moran is not."

Yorick gulped. "But I've told you! There was nothing that I could do! The colonel was the one at fault!"

"I shall deal with the colonel. In the meantime, it is you who needs my undivided attention."

A shot. A cry of pain. A thud as a body hit the floor and Yorick moved no more.

Professor James Moriarty simply stared into the distance. "Until we meet again. Sherlock Holmes."

_To Be Continued…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank all of my kind readers, particularly those who took the time to leave their lovely, helpful comments. You are the people that I write for! Thank you so much for giving me a reason to push through and finish this story after so long! You are all amazing!
> 
> I hope to see all of you again when I begin to write the sequel! Thank you so much again! I hope that you've enjoyed this story as much as I have!


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